

































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































COPYRIGHT DEPOSffi 




































« 



\ 



























THE WHISPERING LANE 



THE 

WHISPERING LANE 


BY 

FERGUS HUME 


i 


Author of “The Moth Woman,” “The Trick of Time/' 
“The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,” etc. 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 









Copybicht, 1925 


By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 


(Incorporated) 



Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

TUB BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 



\ 


MAR 31 1925 

Cl A 823566 •/ 



TO 

MY KIND FRIEND 
ERNEST GEORGE MATHEW 


i 


















































' 
























































































































CONTENTS 


chapteh pace 

I A Terrible Discovery .... 1 

II The Best Policy.IS 

III Facing the Worst.29 

IV A Friend in Need.44 

V Seeking for Light.57 

VI What the Law Said.71 

VII What the Woman Said .... 84 

VIII The Dark Path.100 

IX The Mysterious Word . . . . 117 

X Heard in the Darkness .... 133 

XI An Important Clue.149 

XII The Unforeseen.163 

XIII The Lost Trail.178 

XIV An Unexpected Meeting . . . . 192 

XV A Clue.205 

XVI Jimmy’s Adventure.221 

XVII In the Underworld.236 

XVIII An Amazing Admission . . . . 249 

XIX The First Revelation . . . . 263 

XX The Second Revelation . . . . 279 

XXI The Third Revelation . . . . 292 








THE WHISPERING LANE 













THE WHISPERING LANE 


CHAPTER I 

A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 

“America ! Goodness to gracious, why do you want 
to go to America ?” 

With an astonished face, in an equally astonished 
tone, the girl in the blue knitted silk jumper and short 
cream skirt, pushed back her chair from the breakfast- 
table. Standing up straightly, in the pride of her 
beautiful youth, she stared hard at the dark-eyed, grey¬ 
haired woman, seated opposite, whose black stuff 
dress with stiffly starched collar and cuffs, suggested 
the uniform of an hospital nurse. No answer was 
forthcoming for the elder of the two twisted her thin 
hands nervously and gazed, unseeingly, as it were, out 
of the window, over the lawn, at a belt of stone-pines, 
which shut off the cottage from the high-road. What 
she found in the view to interest her, it was impos¬ 
sible to conjecture; but her gaze was so intent that 
the girl turned and looked also. Seeing nothing un¬ 
usual in the everyday landscape, she faced her com¬ 
panion again, this time with a significant look at the 
glass of hot milk, which her friend was sipping. 
“Edith!” she spoke reproachfully, “y° u have been 
smoking opium again.” 


2 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“I have had a wakeful night,” rejoined the other, 
hurriedly, and hoarsely, “my neuralgia—the long, dark 
hours—disagreeable memories—shaken nerves. The 
black smoke helps me to endure the nightly journey 
through Hell. ,, 

“Helps you to enter a Fool’s Paradise, you mean. 
Oh my dear, my dear!” greatly distressed the girl 
knelt by Edith’s chair. “You know how much I 
love you for your kindness to me—how much I owe 
you—how I have tried to help you, so that you might 
give up that Devil’s Elixir. Yet—yet”—she broke 
off her speech, overcome with emotion, and sat back 
to cover a tearful face with her hands. 

Edith smoothed the golden head tenderly. “I know 
—I know! But the past has ruined the present, and 
my sole chance of happiness is to drug myself into 
, forgetfulness. Unless”—she hesitated—“America!” 

The girl glanced up understandingly. “You mean 
that in another country you would have another 
chance ?” 

“Something like that, Aileen. I have half a mind 
to give myself that chance—yet half a mind to end it 
all in another way—perhaps the only way.” 

Aileen sprang to her feet, frankly horrified. “You 
mean-?” 

“What if I do?” demanded the other, wearily. 
“Who would care ?” 

“I would—you know I would.” 

“Ah, yes. For a day, a week, a year: afterwards 
you would forget. And rightly forget. Why should 
I ruin your life, as I have ruined my own?” she made a 
gesture of despair, drank hurriedly what remained of 
the milk, and leaned back gloomily in her chair, again 
twisting her thin hands. 



A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


3 

“Dear!” murmured the girl softly, “I owe you so 
much that-” 

Edith threw up one hand in protest. “You owe me 
nothing—nothing!” 

“Let us leave it at that,” suggested Aileen, coax- 
ingly, “and talk over things quietly, before we decide 
what is best to be done.” 

“Ah well. As you will,” agreed Miss Danby, list¬ 
lessly, and closed her eyes. 

Aileen nodded approvingly. Silence was the best 
anodyne to tranquillize this brain-storm, so she left 
her friend to its steadying influence, and moved to¬ 
wards the low-set window. Actually it was so low, 
that by pushing up the sash and bending slightly over 
the sill, she could easily have stepped out on to the 
lawn. And indeed, at the moment, she was strongly 
inclined to do so, feeling that the cool greyness of the 
early October morning would calm her own mind, 
stirred up to sympathetic unrest by the mysterious sor¬ 
rows of Edith Danby. For mysterious they most 
assuredly were, so far as she had acquaintance with 
the surface of things. Troubles, Edith undoubtedly 
endured in common with most post-war men and 
women, but none so great as could not be diminished 
by the exercise of common-sense. The mole-hill cer¬ 
tainly was by no means small, but there was no need 
to enlarge it into a Mount Blanc. 

Often, during her year’s companionship with Edith 
in the lonely Essex cottage, had Aileen wondered what 
tragedy was written on the turned-down page in the 
woman’s life-history. It must be, thought the girl, 
anew, a singularly sinister chronicle to have changed 
the handsome, fresh-coloured, buxom brunette, she 
recollected ten years back, into the grey-haired, silent, 



4 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


dull-eyed creature, who was drugging herself so de¬ 
liberately. The victim herself admitted as much,— 
that she smoked opium advisedly in the endeavour to 
banish the memory of some poignant experience, the 
details of which she never revealed, even in confidential 
moments. And so life had gone on ever since Aileen 
More had come to live in Fryfeld village. Month 
after month, the atmosphere of that ancient cottage 
on its outskirts became increasingly charged with 
something of vague menace, hinting at a vague climax. 
Unknown to Aileen the climax had come that very 
morning—that very moment. The danger, long lin¬ 
gering at the door, had entered the house. 

“America!” repeated Miss Danby, recalling the girl 
from the window. “Yes, I must go to America at 
once—next week, if possible. You need not come 
with me, Aileen: indeed, I prefer that you should not. 
Stay in this cottage, and I shall allow you a reasonable 
income.” 

“Edith!” Aileen was wholly bewildered by this 
sudden insistence upon an unexpected journey. 
“What do you mean?” 

The tormented woman did not reply, but looked 
sadly and a trifle enviously at the slim grace of the 
girl’s somewhat boyish figure, at her bobbed hair of 
feathery gold, at her distressed blue eyes and charm¬ 
ingly flushed face. There was no question but that 
Aileen was delicately lovely with that alluring air of 
feminine dependence upon masculine strength, which 
attracts men to protect forlorn beauty. And the girl 
in her budding womanhood, graciously fresh as a 
spring flower, had already attracted at least one 
genuine admirer. “Does Mr. Hustings love you?” 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


5 

asked Edith abruptly, and ignoring the question so 
vehemently put. 

“I think so—I don’t know—I can’t be sure—per¬ 
haps. He looks much, but says little. And—and 
what has he to do with our conversation?” 

“Much; as I intend to cross over to America as 
soon as is possible—alone. And I should like to leave 
England with the certain knowledge that Mr. Hust¬ 
ings will marry you—for protection.” 

Aileen pouted resentfully, so peremptory was the 
speech. “I don’t want to marry and be protected. 
I can look after myself. I am not in love with Mr. 
Hustings, although I like him. And I certainly don’t 
want to leave the only friend I have in the wide, wide 
world.” 

“Child, you must marry and leave me,” said Miss 
Danby with a desponding look. “It is for your good 
that I speak and I sacrifice much in so speaking. God 
knows that I love you dearly—so dearly, that I refuse 
to drag you down.” 

“Oh, Edith!” Aileen was both distressed and 
deeply moved. “Why do you talk in this dreadful 
way. I know you have troubles, of which I know 
little: Dr. Slanton who persecutes you to marry him— 
your health broken down by years of war-work in 
hospitals—this terrible opium habit, and—and— 
what else, what else? There is something in your life, 
which worries you constantly, and which you won’t 
tell me. Yet if you do, I may be able to help you.” 

“Perhaps! Maybe! I don’t know! But-” 

Edith broke off tremulously and once more her eyes 
strayed to the trees across the lawn. Suddenly she 
braced herself and spoke with a resumption of her 



6 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


hospital authority. “Come here, child. I shall tell 
you as much as I dare tell you.” 

The younger woman obeyed, crossing the old- 
fashioned parlour to kneel again beside the chair and 
to look up trustfully into her friend’s ravaged face. 
Whatever might be hidden behind that mask of tor¬ 
ment : however dreadful the happenings, which had 
created its pain, the girl saw nothing there but gentle 
love and kind protection. “I don’t care what you 
have done,” she cried with defiant confidence, “you 
will always be to me the best of women; the sweetest 
and dearest of friends.” And her fresh red lips 
touched caressingly the grey lips of the face bending 
over hers. 

“Some day you may change your mind,” muttered 
Miss Danby, in a trembling voice. “I—I—I”— 
she held her breath, then leaned back in her chair with 
a long-drawn sigh. Shaken by some overpowering 
emotion to the core of her being, she fought silently 
to regain self-control. Finally she succeeded: checked 
the climbing sorrow in her throat, and spoke with 
carefully calculated calmness. “Listen to me, Aileen, 
while I place before you, things as they were, and 
things as they are. A twice-told tale you will say. 
Yes! Yet one to be repeated, since who knows what 
the day may bring forth.” 

“What can the day bring forth, other than usual?” 
asked Aileen, wonderingly. 

“Hold your tongue,” commanded Miss Danby, 
harshly, although her caressing hand, smoothing the 
girl’s hair, intimated that the harshness was largely 
feigned. “Listen. I tell you. Before the war I was 
secretary to a clever man—an inventor—a scientist—” 

“My father, George More. I know that.” 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


7 


“Did I not say that I was repeating a twice-told 
tale? Don’t interrupt me more than you can help. 
When the war came, I gave up my post and took up 
nursing, sometimes at home, sometimes abroad. It 
was at a base-hospital in France that I nursed your 
brother Roderick. I loved him, if you remember, 
when I was your father’s secretary.” 

“Yes! Yes!” broke in the girl, eagerly. “I was 
only ten years of age at that time, and Roddy told me 
that you were to be my new sister.” 

“I hoped to be,” sighed Edith with a yearning look 
in her dark eyes, “but your father objected to the 
marriage, because I was poor and of humble birth. 
I did not meet Roderick again, until he was brought in, 
badly wounded, to the hospital. It was cruel, cruel. 
You were a dear little child, Aileen. I loved you, 
I loved Roderick, I admired your father; we could 
all have been so happy together. Now! Now! 
Ah me! Roderick is dead, your father is missing, 
and I am a wreck, old before my time, heart-broken, 
despairing.” 

“Poor dear, poor dear,” cooed Aileen, fondling the 
hand she held, “but don’t lose heart, Edith. Hope for 
the best.” 

“Your youth speaks,” cried the forlorn woman, 
bitterly. “How can I hope, when my beloved is lying 
in a foreign grave; when that man Slanton perse¬ 
cutes me to be his wife. Beast!” she clenched her 
teeth and frowned hatred. “As you know, Aileen, 
he was the doctor of the hospital, where I nursed 
Roderick, and even then paid his addresses to me. 
Ugh!” she shuddered. “But I loved your brother; 
yes, and he loved me, when we met again. All the 
passion of our early years revived. Even though he 


8 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


was sick unto death, we became engaged. He gave 
me this ring”—Edith kissed the golden emblem of 
past delight—“Dear, dear Roderick! And thinking 
he would die—there was every chance of that—he 
made a will, leaving me his income of two thousand a 

year. And then—and then-” the woman’s hands 

rose in trembling despair, and her. voice died away in 
a faint, sorrowful cry. 

“Then he died,” whispered the girl, ending the sen¬ 
tence and burying her face in Edith’s lap. 

For quite three minutes there was an eloquent 
silence, the two remaining motionless with over¬ 
powering emotion. “Yes. He died of—of—his 
wounds,” whispered Edith in a strained, unnatural 
voice, “and I was left, a rich woman to face the 
persecutions of Cuthbert Slanton. Beast!” she cried 
again, and fiercely, “he has no love for me, for anyone 
but himself. It is only the money he desires—the two 
thousand a year which my dead love left to me. When 
the War was over, I returned to London, and went to 
see your father—to insist that he should take back 
the money, so that I* might prove to his hard heart 
that my love for Roderick was selfless; also that I 
might be set free from the persecution of Slanton. 
But your father had disappeared some months before. 
The house was shut up.” 

Aileen sat with her hands folded loosely on her lap, 
and looked sadly at a sandy-haired cat, lying comfort¬ 
ably before the fire. “Father gave up all his scientific 
work, during the war, and took a Government appoint¬ 
ment, with the idea of making aeroplanes more perfect. 
He had wonderful powers of invention you know, 
Edith. He sent me to school at Brighton, and only 
wrote me occasionally. Just before the Armistice was 



A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


9 


signed, his letters ceased, and he was reported as 
missing. Since then I have heard nothing from him; 
nothing of him.” 

“What has become of him I wonder?” Edith 
spoke more to herself than to Aileen. 

“No one knows. It was said that the Germans took 
him prisoner. But I can’t believe that, as, by this 
time, he would have been set free. I think he must be 
dead, else he would have returned. But Father never 
cared for me much,” sighed the girl sadly, “he tol¬ 
erated me, but adored Roddy. Oh, how he loved 
Roddy.” 

“Not sufficiently to allow him to gain happiness by 
marrying me,” continued the gaunt, grey woman, 
harshly, “but let that pass.. My darling is dead, your 
father is missing, as I learned at the War Office. I 
looked you up at your school, Aileen, but found that 
you had gone into a London office, as a clerk.” 

“Yes! The man with whom Father left money for 
me ran away. I was stranded. Then you found me, 
you angel,” Aileen flung herself forward to embrace 
Miss Danby’s waist, “and brought me here to live in 
peace and plenty. Oh you are good to me, Edith. 
How can I ever, ever thank you for all your kind¬ 
ness.” 

“Don’t talk nonsense,” retorted the other, sharply. 
“I offered Roderick’s money to you, only to be re¬ 
fused. The least I could do was to ask you to live 
with me, as my companion, so that you might enjoy 
some of the money. Oh enjoy—enjoy!” she looked 
round the old-fashioned parlour contemptuously, “and 
in an isolated furnished cottage. I should have done 
better for you than this.” 

Aileen rose to her feet, and also glanced round the 


IO 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


room, with its Victorian decorations, and crowded fur¬ 
niture. It was old and shabby, but somehow comfort¬ 
able in a home-like way, soothing to the nerves. “I 
don’t know that I want anything better than this, 
Edith,” she said slowly. “After all the trials of the 
war and my solitary life in London as a badly-paid 
clerk, I love this isolation, and middle-class comfort, 
which you needn’t despise. We can be quite happy 
here so I don’t see why you should want to go to 
America.” 

Miss Danby jumped up and flung out her arms 
recklessly. “Don’t you understand that I wish to es¬ 
cape from that beast, Slanton?” she almost shouted, 
and with the look of a tragedy queen, “Does he give 
me any peace? If he isn’t in this room twice a week, 
he worries me with letters nearly every day! I can’t 
stand it; he will drive me crazy.” 

“Why don’t you appeal to the police for protec¬ 
tion?” asked Aileen, with a flash of anger, for she also 
detested the doctor fervently. 

Miss Danby sank back into the chair with a ghastly 
look: “I—I—I—daren’t.” 

“Has he any hold over you?” demanded the girl, 
shrewdly. 

“No! No! No! Of course he hasn’t. Why— 
why should you think that?” Edith was now white 
to the lips, but put the question with an uneasy 
laugh. 

“How can I help thinking it? This is a free coun¬ 
try, and men are not allowed to persecute women, as 
Dr. Slanton is persecuting you. For some reason—I 
can’t guess what it is—you are afraid of him. But 
whatever the cause may be, better face the worst and 
ask for the aid of the Law.” 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


ii 


“I can’t—I shan’t,” breathed Edith, sullenly. 

“You must,” urged the girl vigorously, “I’ll stand 
by you. This man is driving you to smoke opium: to 
shut yourself up in this isolated cottage. He seems to 
make you do what he likes, even to keeping that photo¬ 
graph of him on the mantelpiece. Beast! I use your 
own word, Edith. Beast!” 

Miss Danby flushed redly and furiously in the face 
of this pointed rebuke, and when Aileen hurled the last 
word at her, she deliberately rose, took the photograph 
from the mantelpiece and held it before the girl’s eyes. 
“Look at him!” she said, dourly. “Number 666. 
That is the number of the Beast in Revelations.” 

Aileen stared hard at the lean saturnine face in the 
picture with its heavy square jaw, and piercing little 
eyes. A cruel, cunning face—the face of a reckless 
scoundrel, who would stop at nothing to gain his ends. 
“Oh, he is Number 666 right enough,” she said, scorn¬ 
fully, “all the same I would defy him and his devil¬ 
ments, whatever they may be.” 

“I do defy him and them,” cried Edith, viciously, 
and, ripping the photograph out of its silver frame, she 
tore it into four pieces, flung them on the carpet and 
stamped on them. “There! That shows you how 
much I care,” she ended with a defiant laugh, which 
yet had in it, an echo of fear. 

“Good!” Aileen nodded her satisfaction, “And now 
go further. The Law-” 

“No!” the woman quailed, and again her face be¬ 
came the colour of ashes, “it is impossible for me to 
appeal to the Law. The only way of escape is to cross 
the Atlantic.” 

“That’s running away: and running away isn’t 
playing the game.” 



12 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“How do you know what game I am playing with 
Slanton?” demanded Edith, in fierce tones, and her 
eyes became hard. 

“I know nothing, because you won’t tell me any¬ 
thing. But I can’t understand why you should let 
this man make a hell of your life. If I were you”— 
Aileen stiffened her fragile body and flashed defiance 
from her very observant blue eyes—“I should fight 
him—fight him to the last ditch.” 

“And be ruined when I fell into it,” muttered Edith 
wretchedly. “Impossible!—Impossible! Yet I must 
do something!” and for the third time she looked at 
the belt of stone-pines. 

“Why do you keep staring in that direction?” 

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” said the other, hastily, 
“I am only trying to find a solution for my troubles.” 
She stopped speaking, then stepped forward to face 
the girl squarely. “If I were a bad, wicked woman, 
would you stand by me?” she hurled the question 
almost savagely at Aileen. 

“Yes, I would. I don’t believe you are bad,” an¬ 
swered the girl, steadily, “you aren’t greedy over 
money, or you wouldn’t want to give me, or Father, the 
income Roderick left you. You are not a society 
vampire, or you wouldn’t stay here at the Back-of- 
Beyond. You don’t seem to gain anything by being 
wicked, therefore, you can’t be wicked, so far as I can 
see. We can talk of this later, when Dr. Slanton 
comes on one of his persecuting visits. This time he 
will find that he has me to face as well as you.” 

“No! No! You mustn’t-” 

“Yes I must. If you haven’t pluck, I have, and I 
don’t care what you say, or he says. I’m going to 
fight. Do you hear. Fight! Meanwhile your nerves 



A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


J 3 

are screaming from your opium silliness, and this hot 
room doesn’t help them to improve A little air,”— 
she walked to the window, raised the lowered sash, 
and looked over her shoulder—“come for a stroll.” 

“Too tired,” refused Edith languidly, and stooped 
to gather the sleeping sandy cat on to her lap. “Take 
Toby out for a run on the lawn. But don’t go into the 
wood, or you’ll get your feet wet. Toby has been 
scratching at the door for the last five minutes.” 

“Keep Amelia safe then,” advised Aileen, nodding 
towards the cat, and she threw open the parlour door 
to admit a joyous wire-haired terrier, who immediately 
began to race wildly round the room. “Toby. Toby. 
Behave yourself.” 

But Toby had no desire to obey, since he possessed 
to the full, that usual amount of original sin, inherent 
in his breed. With a victorious bark he sprang for 
Edith’s lap and bit Amelia, who, nothing daunted, re¬ 
sponded with a vigorous scratch. Pandemonium en¬ 
sued, as the women tried to part the combatants: until 
Amelia settled the question by squirming out of Edith’s 
arms to dart out of the window with Toby in full cry 
after her swift heels. Aileen bent herself to step out 
in pursuit, hearing Miss Danby’s warning cry, as she 
sped, like Atalanta across the lawn. “Don’t go into 
the wood,” cried the woman, and it seemed to the girl 
as if the distant voice was charged with dread. 

But Aileen was compelled to neglect this advice, if 
Amelia was to be saved from the eager jaws of Toby. 
The flying animals made straight for the stone-pines, 
and the girl was shortly almost knee-deep in bracken 
under the dripping trees. Toby just missed his prey 
by a hair-breadth, for Amelia was up and over the 
mouldering red brick wall like a flash of lightning, 


14 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


leaving her enemy to bark and caper at the base. 
But Aileen paid no attention to his antics. She was 
staring dumb-foundered at the body of a man, over 
which she had stumbled. It lay amongst the yellowing 
grasses, and wet brown ferns, with a handkerchief laid 
over the face and with the hands crossed on the breast. 
For a moment or two the shaken girl could neither 
move, nor cry out, but stared and stared and stared at 
that thing which was lying so stilly amongst the 
jumbled wreckage of autumn. Then movement came 
back to her. She bent down cautiously and lifted the 
handkerchief, to behold a frozen face with four letters 
tattooed across a discoloured forehead. “C-A-I-N ,, 
spelled the girl, dumbly. “Cain!” Then she ex¬ 
amined the face, and became white with terror. For 
the face was that of Cuthbert Slanton. 


CHAPTER II 


THE BEST POLICY 

Notwithstanding her youthful years and fragile 
looks, Aileen More was remarkably strong-willed and 
self-possessed. Naturally, she endured an age-long 
sixty seconds of sheer horror, when stumbling so un¬ 
expectedly upon Edith’s enemy lying dead in the 
grounds of Edith’s cottage. The thought of a possible 
explanation flashed into her mind immediately, as she 
recalled the late conversation; and a vivid sense of her 
friend’s peril suggested instant action. After ascer¬ 
taining that Slanton really was lifeless, she picked up 
Toby, who circled distrustfully round the corpse, and 
returned swiftly to the cottage. Here a fresh shock 
awaited her. Edith was lying unconscious on the floor 
near the open window. 

“Jenny! Jenny!” Aileen flew to open the door 
and summon the servant. “Bring a jug of water at 
once. Miss Danby has fainted. Get the smelling 
salts and sal volatile from my bedroom. Be quick, 
be quick.” 

Issuing these directions rapidly, she crossed the 
passage to shut up the terrier in the opposite room; 
then returned to attend to the insensible woman. 
Kneeling beside her, the girl loosened her collar, chafed 
her hands, placed a cushion under her head, and did 
all that was possible at the moment, to better the situ¬ 
ation. Jenny, a stout red-haired damsel, not over- 
15 


i6 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


gifted with brains, and extremely stolid on all and 
every occasion, tardily arrived with a jug in one hand 
and two bottles in the other. “Lor, Miss, whatever did 
missus go off like this for?” asked Jenny, heavily. 

“A sleepless night—the heat of the room—Oh, I 
don’t know. Here, give me the jug!” and Aileen 
dashed the water over Edith’s white face. Very 
wisely, she decided to say as little as possible to the 
maid, who was known to be a notorious gossip. Then, 
as Edith showed no signs of returning to her senses, 
she ordered Jenny to help place her on the sofa. “You 
lift her feet,” she said, slipping her hands under Miss 
Danby’s arms. “Careful now.” 

The two women accomplished the transfer from 
floor to couch fairly easily, as Edith was little else 
than skin and bone, owing to the wasting effect of se¬ 
cret troubles. The smelling salts produced some signs 
of revival, for Miss Danby heaved a long weary sigh, 
half-opened her eyes, and closed them again, listlessly. 
“Get me a glass of water and a teaspoon,” commanded 
Aileen, uncorking the sal volatile bottle: and these 
came to hand in less time than might have been ex¬ 
pected from Jenny’s cumbersome appearance. “Now 
you can go. She’ll soon be herself again. I’ll call 
you if I want anything.” 

Thus banished at this thrilling moment, the over¬ 
grown domestic retired reluctantly, overwhelmed with 
justifiable curiosity as to the reason for the unexpected 
fainting of her mistress. Despite her stolidity and 
limited capacity, she inherited all the easily-aroused 
suspicion of the lower-class scandalmonger, and had 
long since guessed that there was “something queer” 
about Miss Danby. Aileen knew that the girl was a 
born mischief-maker, so wisely took the precaution of 


THE BEST POLICY 


17 


getting rid of her, lest Edith should reveal too much, 
when she regained her senses. The situation was so 
strained and suggestively dangerous, that it was nec¬ 
essary to move discreetly, if a public scandal was to 
be averted. But indeed, Aileen, watching her unhappy 
friend, slowly coming back to consciousness, did not 
see how it could be avoided in any way. The presence 
of the dead body in the wood must needs be explained, 
and the explanation would most surely bring to light 
uncomfortable matters best left in the dark. “It is 
the climax sure enough,” said Aileen, and, uncon¬ 
sciously, she said it aloud. 

“Climax!” muttered Miss Danby, confusedly, “what 
climax ?” 

“Never mind,” said the girl quickly, “take another 
sip of sal volatile, and I’ll get the brandy. Feel better 
don’t you dear?” 

Edith sat up weakly, pushing back her grey hair 
with a bewildered expression. “Feel better?” she 
echoed, brokenly, “why—what—when-?” 

“You fainted,” explained Aileen, quietly, and 
stepped over to the side-board to fill a wine-glass with 
brandy. 

“Fainted! Fainted! Why—what—when?—oh I 
am sick—very sick!” and the miserable woman rocked 
herself to and fro, trembling violently. 

“Hush! Hush!” Aileen held the glass to her lips, 
“drink this. Lie back, and in a few minutes you will 
be able to talk.” 

“But I don’t—don’t understand.” 

“Rest! Rest! We can speak later.” 

Speaking coaxingly, the girl adjusted the cushion, 
made her patient lie back comfortably, and stroked her 
forehead with a gentle hand. Shortly Edith closed 


i8 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


her eyes and became more placid, although every now 
and then, she moaned pitifully. Aileen crossed to the 
window silently, and as silently drew down the lower 
sash, looking meanwhile—as Edith had done several 
times that morning—over the lawn to the belt of stone- 
pines. Knowing what lay underneath those pines, 
she shuddered and wondered if, indeed, Edith knew 
also. It was evident that she did, else why her con¬ 
stant looking in that ominous direction, and why the 
unexpected fainting? Then again, the dead man had 
been her enemy, whom she frankly detested, whom 
she openly longed to get rid of. Had she accomplished 
this by violence, and was the projected journey to 
America a flight from justice? Aileen asked herself 
these dreadful questions, and the answers which sug¬ 
gested themselves filled her with dismay. Yet plau¬ 
sible as the answers were, the girl could not bring 
herself to believe that the best friend she had in the 
world had committed a cold-blooded murder. She 
comforted herself with the thought that there must be 
some exonerating circumstance, and that Edith would 
explain the circumstance in due time. 

A low wailing cry from the sofa brought back 
Aileen in a hurry with an anxious face, and a rapidly- 
beating heart. She dreaded to hear what Edith might 
confess; yet knew that she must listen carefully, so as 
to plan future action. Assuring herself, by peering 
into the passage, that Jenny was not eavesdropping, 
she closed the door and returned to the sofa. Edith 
was sitting up, composed and apologetic, but smiling 
uneasily as she raised her eyes. “I don’t know how I 
came to faint in this silly way,” she said, with a foolish 
titter. “Probably the want of sleep last night.” 


THE BEST POLICY 


19 

“I thought that the opium made you sleep?” sug¬ 
gested Aileen, dryly. 

“On and off: off and on,” mumbled the other affect¬ 
ing lightness and swinging her legs on to the floor, 
“but I feel weak.” 

“Try and feel strong.” Aileen’s voice was still dry. 
“I have something very unpleasant to tell you.” 

Miss Danby winced, stood up and stationed herself 
on the hearth-rug. In her severely plain garb, now 
hanging so loosely on her tall figure, she looked miser¬ 
ably grey and gaunt. Her eyes did not meet those of 
Aileen, but stared over the lawn, as they had done pre¬ 
viously. “Yes!” said the girl, immediately seizing 
the opening, “he is lying there.” 

“He—Who?” Miss Danby suddenly stiffened and 
looked as hard and grim as granite. 

“Dr. Slanton!” retorted the other, bluntly. 

“What is he doing there?” 

“He isn’t there.” 

“You said that he was.” 

“Only his body.” 

“Body! Body!” Edith’s voice hinted at a scream, 
although she spoke hoarsely. “Do you mean to tell 
me that he is—he is—dead?” she whispered the last 
word, wild-eyed with panic. 

Aileen nodded, looking straightly into her friend’s 
eyes. She met therein an emotion, which made her 
recoil; not a human emotion, but one which suggested 
the animal, which lies dormant in all. A she-wolf 
peered out of those eyes—the merest hint of one—then 
again disappeared in a flood of fear, the new emotion 
overwhelming the old. “Murdered!” said Aileen, 
driving home the intensity of the moment. 


20 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“No! No!” Miss Danby shrank back against the 
mantelpiece, thrusting her two hands out before her, 
as if to ward off a blow, “It’s—it’s impossible.” 

“It is true. Come and see for yourself.” 

“I can’t—I daren’t!” her voice lowered to a horri¬ 
fied whisper. 

“Why daren’t you?” Aileen had recovered from her 
second of sick loathing when the animal strain had 
surged to the surface, and pursued her examination 
relentlessly. Even if this wretched woman was guilty, 
it was the duty of the girl she had succoured to 
stand by her in the hour of her need. 

“I’m afraid!” faltered Edith, trembling. “He 
troubled me when alive, so why should I let him trouble 
me now that he is dead? Dead!” her voice steadied 
and leaped an octave, “Who killed him?” 

“I should ask you that, Edith, and I do.” 

“What do you mean? I know nothing about the 
matter,” her words poured out in spate, tumbling 
furiously over one another, “I have not been to the 
wood—it’s impossible—you are mistaken. That beast 
can’t be there: he isn’t dead. Men like Cuthbert 
Slanton cannot die. They live—live to torment un¬ 
happy women,” and she paused, breathless with wordy 
haste. 

“Unhappy women sometimes take the law into their 
own hands,” hinted Aileen, and again came the torrent 
of denial. 

“Why do you say that—what do you mean—I know 
nothing—why should I know anything—you said you 
were my friend—you know you did.” 

“I am your friend,” came the steady answer, “and 
for that very reason I wish to get at the truth.” 

“The truth—the truth. I know nothing of the 


THE BEST POLICY 21 

truth. Why come to me? I am ignorant of every¬ 
thing.” 

The girl, controlling herself amazingly, placed her 
hands on the woman’s shoulders, “Can you swear to 
that?” 

“I can—I can—why shouldn’t I?” Edith shook 
her off. “How dare you think-” 

Aileen interrupted. “It is not what I think, but 
what the police will think.” 

Miss Danby clutched at her breast and gasped pain¬ 
fully, her mouth opening and shutting with never a 
sound, for one long, long minute. Then, “You won’t 
—tell the police of—of—this.” 

“Edith, it is impossible to keep this thing quiet. 
Dr. Slanton is dead, and his body lies in the wood 
yonder, so-” 

“We can bury it!” Miss Danby clutched Aileen 
round the waist and whispered the suggestion hoarsely, 
“You and I—to-night—when there’s no one about.” 

The girl pulled herself away, turning even paler than 
she already was. This hint at concealment was in 
itself an admission of guilt. “I lend myself to no such 
underhand doings,” she said sternly, and her face grew 
bleak. “If we acted so madly, think what would hap¬ 
pen. Dr. Slanton would be missed—it is known that he 
comes here—to the village, to the cottage. Inquiries 
would be made, and if the—the”—she shuddered and 
brought out the ominous word with an effort—“grave 
was found, both you and I would be accused of murder¬ 
ing him.” 

“But we are innocent. You know nothing—I know 
nothing,” urged Edith, twisting her thin hands in a 
frenzy of fear. “I haven’t seen Slanton for two weeks 
<—you know I have not.” 




22 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“I don’t know what took place last night,” was the 
significant answer. 

“Nor do I—nor do I,” moaned Edith, and flung her¬ 
self on the sofa, crying. 

Aileen sat down beside her, and took one of the limp 
hands between her own cold fingers: for cold they were, 
and cold she was to her heart’s centre, so heavily did* 
this nightmare horror weigh her down. “You know 
that I am your true friend, Edith—that I mean to stand 
by you, whatever happens. Tell me all you know— 
all you have done. Did you kill this man—not think¬ 
ing to kill him perhaps—but in a moment of passion?” 

“I know nothing, nothing,” came from the woman in 
muffled tones, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion. 

“Think! Think! Had you been smoking opium? 
Were you unconscious of what you were doing? 
Drugged by the black smoke, you might have killed 
blindly.” 

“I know nothing!” 

“You must know,” urged Aileen. “Did you quarrel 
when Sian ton came last night?” 

“He never came: I never saw him.” 

“He did come; you did see him,” insisted the girl, 
fiercely, for she realized clearly that the worst must 
come to the worst, if she failed to gain the miserable 
creature’s confidence. “He insulted you, didn’t he? 
And you struck at him, not knowing what you were 
doing? And afterwards, coming to your senses, you 
grew afraid and dragged the body into the wood to 
hide it.” 

“As you seem to be so certain of my guilt, it is use¬ 
less for me to deny anything!” said Miss Danby, 
bitterly, and sat up rigidly obstinate. 

The girl wrung her hands, desperately. “How can 


THE BEST POLICY 


23 

I help you, when you won’t be plain with me—when 
you refuse to confess.” 

“I have nothing to confess,” retorted the woman, 
sullenly, “you construct the whole scene of what did 
not happen, so glibly, that it is evident you think me 
guilty. A fine friend you are, I must say.” 

“You won’t allow me to be your friend!” Aileen 
rose, and the extreme terror of the position forced her 
to brace up and face the worst. “Can’t you under¬ 
stand that honesty is the best policy. We can’t keep 
this murder quiet.” 

“You run on too fast. It may not be a murder.” 

“It is a murder, else why should the body be lying 
in yonder wood? And why did you tattoo the name 
‘Cain’ on the forehead? You did it.” 

Edith clasped and unclasped her hands, restlessly. 
“I did nothing of the sort—this is the first time I’ve 
heard of the thing. How can I have tattooed the 
forehead, when I have no instruments to do so, and 
would not know how to use them, if they were in my 
possession ? Cain!” she rose to pace the room, swiftly, 
as if to work off her superabundant emotion in exer¬ 
cise. “Why should I brand that name on Slanton’s 
forehead ?” 

“I don’t know. I know nothing.” 

“Neither do I,” retorted Miss Danby, throwing up 
her hands despairingly, “the whole thing is a mystery 
to me.” 

“Then the mystery must be solved by the police,” 
said Aileen, moving past the woman, and towards the 
door. 

Edith caught her by the arm. “Where are you 
going?” 

“Down to the village to see the policeman.” 


24 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“You'll ruin me if you go?” 

“I’ll ruin you and myself also if I don’t go. Hon¬ 
esty is the best policy.” 

“You said that before, parrot that you are. Aileen, 
don’t make bad worse. In some way Slanton came 
here last night; in some way he has been murdered. 
But I swear that I know nothing of the matter.” 

“In that case, you can’t object to my going to the 
policeman in the village.” 

“You believe that I am guilty?” 

“No! I can’t—I can’t,” cried the girl, trying to 
persuade herself that she spoke truly, “you couldn’t 
have done it.” 

A cynical smile curved the grey lips of the other. 
“You blow hot and cold,” she sneered, contemptuously, 
“one minute you say this: another minute you say that. 
Ah well—I am guilty.” 

Aileen cried out in horror. “You admit it?” 

Edith shook her head, positively. “I am only say¬ 
ing what the policeman will say—what the judge and 
jury will say.” 

“The judge and jury,” echoed Aileen, faintly, the 
full danger of the situation coming home to her. 

“Yes! If you go down to the village and tell 
what you conceive to be the truth,” said Miss Danby, 
with a shrug, and, although her face was deathly 
white, she spoke firmly, “everything is against me. 
I hated Slanton—he came here frequently—we quar¬ 
relled incessantly—you overheard our quarrels—Jenny, 
always with her ear to the key-hole, heard them 
also. Slanton is murdered you say, and his body 
lies on my grounds. Who will believe that I am 
guiltless?” 


THE BEST POLICY 


25 


“I believe, unless you did it in a moment of frenzy/’ 

“Then you don’t believe,’’ Edith laughed contemptu¬ 
ously, flung back her head, tossed her arms. “Well 
then, go. I can meet the worst, if the worst is to come, 
as it most assuredly will come, if you betray me.’’ 

“I am not betraying you. I am acting for the 
best.’’ 

“When I am under lock and key you will think 
differently.” 

“I will stand by you.” 

“Are you standing by me now ?” 

“Yes I am. You know I am. It is better for you 
to face the lesser danger of admission, than the greater 
danger of concealment.” 

Miss Danby reflected for a moment, then went to 
look into the mirror over the fire-place and smooth her 
disordered grey hair. “Suppose I kill myself while 
you are away, preparing my uncomfortable future.” 

“Then I shall know you are guilty,” rejoined Aileen, 
promptly. 

“You are frank.” Edith wheeled round with a 
frown. 

“Because I believe you to be innocent, unless you 
unconsciously-’ ’ 

“Bah! Hot and cold again in your blowing. Well, 
for your comfort I say that I am innocent—that I don’t 
intend to kill myself, and you-?” 

“I shall discover the truth, somewhere, somehow.” 

“The truth! What is the truth ?” questioned Edith, 
cynically, after the fashion of Pontius Pilate. “I 
should like to know it myself. How did Slanton 
come to the wood, who killed him, who branded him, 
and why was he murdered and so tattooed? Difficult 




26 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


questions these, my dear, and I shall be asked to answer 
the lot. H’m! Here is a new Hell to walk through. 
Are you ready to walk along with me?” 

“Yes! I won’t leave you until you are out of the 
Hell you speak of.” 

“Aileen!” Miss Danby moved forward swiftly, 
laid her arms round the girl, and kissed her impetu¬ 
ously. “You are a dear child and my best friend. 
Do what you will. I agree with you that honesty is 
the best policy. But”—she removed her arm from 
Aileen’s neck, and returned to the hearth-rug—“noth¬ 
ing will be said, or done by me to prove that it is the 
best.” 

“Edith! Edith! You must defend yourself.” 

“There is no defence,” stated the grey woman, 
coldly. 

“But—but-” 

“There is no defence! I know nothing—I have seen 
nothing. I am completely at the mercy of circum¬ 
stances.” 

The girl looked imploringly at the inflexible face, 
now impassive as that of the Sphinx. There was no 
evidence of fear, no sign of yielding, so she turned 
and left the room. Her heart ached for Edith, and 
she fervently wished that common-sense did not compel 
her to bring this further trouble upon one already 
burdened. Nevertheless, she felt that the way she 
was taking was the right way, and went upstairs to 
make ready for her errand. This did not take long, 
for in ten minutes Aileen descended drawing on her 
gloves. Before opening the front door, she peered 
into the parlour. Miss Danby was still standing on 
the hearth-rug but her gaze was directed towards the 
window, staring as formerly, over the lawn to the belt 



THE BEST POLICY 


27 


of stone-pines, which sheltered the lifeless body of her 
enemy. Only God knew what her thoughts were 
but Aileen trembled to think what those thoughts might 
be. 

It was a pale and very perplexed young woman, who 
hurried down the tangled avenue of the isolated 
cottage, out through the crazy wooden gates, swinging 
between weather-worn brick pillars, and on to the 
broad highway. Under the showering autumnal foli¬ 
age, discarded by the bordering elm-trees, between 
the dwindling leafage of the red-berried hedges, she 
walked swiftly along the road to where it curved 
round the bare stubbled fields, towards Fryfeld. 
Everything looked sad and forlorn beneath the sullen 
grey clouds, moving sluggishly at the hest of the damp¬ 
blowing winds. The brooding mood of earth and sky 
was also Aileen’s mood, for she, likewise, felt forlorn 
and sad, deserted and despondent. The presence of 
the body in that sinister wood, the silence of Edith, 
and the crying horror of the whole unfathomable 
mystery, quenched the light of her youth with most 
unholy gloom. She was inclined to risk immediate 
flight from this nightmare; to run and run and run, 
everlastingly, until the ghastly thing was left uncounted 
leagues behind. But the recollection of Edith’s kind¬ 
ness, of Edith’s peril, brought her to a halt in the 
village street. And yonder stood Constable Kemp, 
the one and only guardian of the peace in Fryfeld. 
One word from her, and he would hurry hot-footed to 
find the dead man, maybe to arrest Edith, as it were, 
red-handed. 

Suddenly the idea of appealing to the higher au¬ 
thorities at Tarhaven some eight miles distant, came 
into her mind. She immediately turned aside into 


28 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


the grocer-shop-post-office at her elbow to enter the 
telephone-box. A few brief words committed the 
tragedy to world-wide publicity, and having brought 
about the worst through the necessity of facing the 
worst, Aileen went to inform Constable Kemp. The 
smile with which he saluted her was speedily wiped off 
his face, when she abruptly addressed him: “There 
is a murdered man lying in Miss Danby’s wood. I 
have called up the Tarhaven police. Come.” 


CHAPTER III 


FACING THE WORST 

Noonday brought a motor-car from Tarhaven, which 
decanted Detective-Inspector Trant, two of his under¬ 
lings and the Divisional-surgeon, at the gates of the 
cottage. Already the ill-news—travelling proverbially 
f ast __ was known in Fryfeld, and a gradually-increasing 
stream of excited villagers surged eagerly along the 
curved road towards the scene of the tragedy. Men 
and women, also children, morbidly curious, invaded 
the grounds of the solitary dwelling, to stare fearfully 
at its grim walls of grey stone, and pointed roof of 
sombre slates. They peered in at the windows, tapped 
nervously on the green-painted door, rambled here, 
there, and everywhere, generally taking possession of 
the place. Constable Kemp was unable to cope with 
the throng single-handed, so contented himself with 
standing guard over the corpse, now hidden decorously 
under a tarpaulin. This mysterious crime was the 
most sensational event which had ever happened in 
Fryfeld, and its somnolent inhabitants were resolved 
to make the most of it. As the village wit remarked, 
shrewdly, “We don’t kill a pig every day.” 

Immediately Trant arrived, he proceeded to deal 
masterfully with the situation, which was much too 
free and easy for his liking. Ejecting the morbid 
sightseers bluffly, he ordered the gates to be closed, 
and placed a policeman before them, so that no one 
should be able to go out, or to come in. Afterwards 
29 


30 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


he looked at the body, left the doctor to determine the 
cause of death and considered the scanty report of the 
constable. Kemp declared that an inquisitive urchin, 
overhearing Miss More’s revelation in the village street, 
had broadcast the information, so that the inhabi¬ 
tants had descended in a body on the cottage. All he 
could do and did do, was to request Miss More to re¬ 
turn to the house, and stay inside with her friend, Miss 
Danby, until the arrival of the Inspector to take charge 
of the case. Afterwards, he had covered the body with 
the tarpaulin, and while guarding it had kept a strict 
watch on the cottage—visible from the wood—so that 
neither of the women should leave without his knowl¬ 
edge. Finally, reported Kemp, he had searched the 
dead man’s pockets, and now handed over to his 
superior officer the articles which had been found, 
therein. 

These consisted of a return half-ticket from Cornby 
—the nearest railway station—to the Liverpool Street 
Terminus in London, a bunch of keys, a gold watch, 
which was run down, some loose silver with a mix¬ 
ture of coppers, and a well worn pocket-book of 
red leather, containing Treasury notes to the value of 
five pounds, together with some memoranda slips, 
several visiting cards, and a few letters. Trant read 
these last rapidly, but there was not a single hint to be 
found in the writings, likely to connect the deceased 
with Fryfeld, with the cottage, or with its tenants. 
" Dr - Cuthbert Slanton, Plantagenet Hospital, Chel¬ 
sea,” read out Trant from a visiting card. “So that 
was your name,” he added, looking down on the 
corpse. “I wonder why you were given this new one,” 
and his finger traced the four letters on the puffed 
discoloured forehead. “If we could learn why you 


FACING THE WORST 


3 1 

were called Cain, we should learn who got rid of you. 
And how were you got rid of ?” 

The surgeon looked up and answered for the dead 
man. “There is a smell of opium/’ he said, sniffing, 
“and if I am correct, the man was drugged.” 

“Poisoned by opium?” 

“I can’t be sure until I make a further examination. 
After the post mortem I shall be able to speak de¬ 
cisively,” the doctor rose, brushing withered herbage 
from his knees. “It can’t be done here.” 

“FU have the body taken down to the village later. 
Meanwhile, you stay here, doctor, and you, Jeringham,” 
to the other policeman, “while I go into the cottage 
to question these women. Kemp, come with me.” 

Midway across the lawn, Trant halted the con¬ 
stable, “What do you know about these women, 
Kemp?” 

“Ladies, sir. Miss Edith Danby and her com¬ 
panion, Miss Aileen More. They rented this cottage 
furnished a year ago—Miss Danby did I mean—and 
have lived here, very quietly, ever since.” 

“Do you know them: have you spoken to them?” 

“Not to Miss Danby, sir. I have caught a glimpse 
of her wandering about the country, but she never 
came into the village, or went up to London. Miss 
More spoke to me several times, about the ’bus that 
runs to Cornby, three miles distant, and about various 
trivial things. She’s a very pretty girl, sir, and quite 
a lady is Miss Aileen More.” 

“More! More!” the Inspector pinched his chin 
musingly. “Where have I heard that name before. 
More—George More! Ha! Of course—fifteen years 
ago. And to forget. Ha! There’s gratitude for 
you!” 


32 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Yes, sir,” said Kemp, stolidly, quite at a loss what 
to make of this cryptic speech, “of'course, sir.” 

Trant paid no attention to him, but resumed his 
walk across the lawn. At the door he halted again. 
“Who is the owner of this cottage?” 

“Squire Richard Hustings, who lives in the old 
Manor House at the end of Fryfeld, beyond the church. 
He’s a lawyer, sir, and goes daily to Town.” 

“Is he intimate with his tenants?” 

“Not with Miss Danby, sir, I think,” replied the 
constable, doubtfully, “he comes occasionally to the 
cottage. I rather think, sir, that he admires Miss 
More.” 

Trant nodded. “He’s a young man then.” 

“Twenty-eight, or thereabouts, sir. Was a captain 
during the war and got the D.S.O. Everyone about 
here loves him.” 

“And he loves Miss Aileen More. I think you 
mentioned that as the name of the girl. H’m! 
Besides Mr. Hustings, did these ladies receive any 
visitors ?” 

“I never saw any particular person come, or go, sir, 
except the rector and he only called once. But, as 
the ladies stayed away from church, he didn’t call 
again to my knowledge. Dr. Slanton was the one and 
only person who came—and he came often—to see 
the ladies.” 

“The dead man. Ha!” Trant looked up alertly, 
“He came often you say?” 

“Every other week, sir. I used to see him step off 
the ’bus from Cornby, and get on it again, so’s to catch 
his train.” 

“Did he ever stay here for the night? In the cot¬ 
tage : in the village ?” 


FACING THE WORST 


33 

“Not to my knowing, sir. He came and went like 
a swallow as you might say.” 

“And, now his body, ticketed 'Cain/ is lying in 
yonder wood,” mused Trant, raising his eyebrows. 
“H’m! Anyone in the cottage besides the ladies ?” 

“Jenny Walton, the servant, sir, a girl of eighteen.” 

“What does she say about them?” 

“Only that Miss Danby is queer.” 

“Queer! Queer! What does she mean by queer?” 

“I can’t say, sir. But I do say,” went on the 
constable, upon whose susceptible heart Aileen’s beauty 
had made an impression, “that gossip as Jenny Walton 
is, she hasn’t a worse word in her mouth than 'queer.’ 
And she only uses that about Miss Danby. She’s very 
well satisfied with her place, is Jenny Walton.” 

“Have you seen her this morning?” 

“She came out when I came up with Miss More, 
sir, and seemed all of a fluster like. Miss More told 
her to hold her tongue and pushed her into the house.” 

“Ha! Miss More told Jenny Walton to hold her 
tongue, did she?” 

The policeman nodded uneasily, thinking that he 
was unconsciously implicating the girl he so greatly 
admired. “And told her to wait until you came from 
Tarhaven, sir. I only think that Miss More wants 
things put straight,” ended the man, hurriedly. 

“They are certainly crooked enough now,” com¬ 
mented Trant, and raised his hand to the large brass 
knocker, which adorned the green-painted door. 

The Detective-Inspector was tall and thin, with a 
closely clipped grey moustache, and a fringe of closely 
clipped grey hair round the dome of his bald head. 
His face generally wore a severe expression, the result 
of official self-control; but his light blue eyes beamed 


34 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


occasionally with kindly glances, and when he smiled, 
his whole being was transformed into the semblance 
of a benign deity, prone to mercy. Publicly, Trant 
had the reputation of being a just and honourable 
officer, strict in his dealings with the criminal fra¬ 
ternity; privately, he possessed the common sense, 
arising from long experience, to know that there is 
a soul of good in all things evil. And that soul he 
was always looking for, so as to temper justice with 
mercy. Edith Danby was more fortunate than she 
knew, to have so reasonable a man in charge of such a 
baffling and suspicious case. 

Aileen, with a pale and troubled face, opened the 
door, and an expression of grateful relief, which the 
Inspector was swift to notice, came into her eyes. "I 
am so glad you have come,” she said, impetuously, 
“Miss Danby is in a dreadful state of mind, and wants 
this matter cleared up.” 

“Very naturally, very naturally,” remarked the 
officer, with a searching glance at her youth and beauty 
and manifest distress. Then he added abruptly, 
“You are Miss Aileen More—the companion of Miss 
Danby?” 

“Yes!” 

“Is your father George More, the inventor—the 
man who experiments with wireless matters?” 

“Yes. Do you know my father?” 

“I did know him,” said Trant slowly. 

“Oh!” Aileen grasped the man’s arm, “then you 
may know where he is?” 

The Inspector shook his head, “I heard that he 
disappeared just before the Armistice, but, so far, 
nothing has been heard of him.” He stared at the 
disappointed girl, as if about to say something par- 


FACING THE WORST 


35 


ticular, then checked himself all of a sudden. “Lead 
me to Miss Danby,” he commanded with abrupt sharp¬ 
ness, “and you, Kemp, stay by this door. Let no one 
go out, or come in.” 

The constable saluted, closed the front door and took 
up a watchful position outside, while Aileen, with 
compressed lips, silently conducted the Inspector 
into the old-fashioned parlour. Here, the woman he 
sought was seated on the sofa, staring into the fire, 
and with her hands loosely folded in her lap. She 
did not even glance round when the new-comer entered, 
but her hands involuntarily clasped themselves tightly. 
Trant noted this sub-conscious betrayal of repressed 
emotion, but, making no comment, examined his 
surroundings with meticulous care. The flowering 
wall-paper, against which hung antiquated steel- 
engravings; the flowering carpet, splashed riotously 
with gaudy roses; the round table, covered with an 
Indian, gold-embroidered blue cloth; the horse-hair 
sofa, the mahogany side-board, the ancient chairs, 
which did not match, and the many china ornaments, 
which decorated the mantelpiece in front of the oblong 
mirror in its tarnished gilt frame. All this jumble of 
quaint flotsam and jetsam, the trained observer took 
in at a glance, and then found time to address Miss 
Danby. “What do you know of this dead man in your 
wood?” he asked, coming to the point at once. 

The harassed woman, rose tall and gaunt, looking 
at the officer with tormented sunken eyes, but per¬ 
fectly self-possessed. “I know that he is Dr. Cuthbert 
Slanton, whom I first met during the war.” 

“Is that all?” 

“What else is there to say?” she demanded, de¬ 
fiantly. 


36 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“For one thing-, how does his dead body come to be 
lying in your grounds?” 

“I don’t know.” Edith sat down again, crossed 
her legs and clasped her thin hands round her knees. 
But she did not meet Trant’s watchful eyes. 

“When did you see him last?” 

“A week ago—no, two weeks ago. My friend there 
was present when I saw him.” 

Trant looked a question, which Aileen immediately 
answered, “I was in this room when Dr. Slanton paid 
Miss Danby a visit two weeks ago.” 

“Have you seen him since?” 

“No!” she replied with convincing emphasis, “not 
until I stumbled over his body this morning!” and she 
hurriedly explained how she had followed the animals 
into the wood. “It was just a chance that I went 
there,” she ended, coolly. 

“H’m! Yes! Just a chance,” muttered the In¬ 
spector, pinching his chin, a sign of perplexity with 
him. Then he asked a sharp question. “What 
were you doing last night—at what time did you 
retire ?” 

“I read for the most part of the evening, then 
occupied myself with trimming a hat. It was close 
upon half-past nine o’clock when I went to bed.” 

“Where is your bedroom?” 

“Upstairs, immediately over this room.” 

“Did you come down during the night?” 

“No!” said Aileen, opening her eyes with manifest 
surprise, “why should I have come down? Once in 
bed, I stay in bed.” 

“I see. You are a sound sleeper?” 

“Very sound. I never wake from the moment I 
place my head on the pillow until the dawn comes. 


FACING THE WORST 


37 

White Nights, as the French call them, are unknown 
to me.” 

“Naturally!” agreed Trant, cordially. “Youthful 
health and an untroubled conscience banish insomnia. 
I understand then, that you heard nothing?” 

“Nothing! It never occurred to me to lie awake, 
expecting to hear anything.” 

“Yet this cottage is very isolated, and the country¬ 
side is disturbed by the aftermath of the war. A 
burglar might have-” 

Aileen laughed and shrugged her pretty shoulders. 
“Miss Danby and I have lived here for twelve months, 
in perfect peace and quietness.” 

The Inspector looked at her searchingly; but, as 
she neither flinched, nor flushed, nor lowered her eyes 
from his piercing gaze, he was convinced in his own 
mind that she was speaking truthfully, so far as the 
truth was known to her. “So it appears that you know 
nothing about this murder ?” 

Before the girl could assent to this tentative opinion, 
the older woman roused herself from a state of appar¬ 
ent indifference, to ask an abrupt question vehemently. 
“Are you sure that it is a case of murder?” 

“It certainly looks very much like it,” responded the 
officer, dryly. 

“Why not a case of suicide?” 

“Setting aside the difficulty of tattooing an un¬ 
pleasant name on one’s own forehead, why should a 
man bent upon suicide do such a silly thing?” Then, 
as Edith simply answered with a shrug of her shoul¬ 
ders, Trant continued: “Did Dr. Slanton ever suggest 
to you that he would commit suicide?” 

“No. Why should be take me into his confidence?” 

“Well—er—you were very intimate friends you 



THE WHISPERING LANE 


38 

know, if one may judge from his frequent visits to 
this house/’ 

“We were intimate only so far that he wanted me 
to marry him and I refused.” 

“And out of sorrow at your refusal, you suggest 
that he committed suicide?” 

“I suggest nothing because I know nothing,” said 
Miss Danby, coldly, “but if it is not a case of suicide 
I cannot understand how Dr. Slanton’s body comes to 
be in my grounds.” 

“That is what I am here to find out,” retorted 
the Inspector, quietly. “Come now, Miss Danby, 
your friend has accounted for her doings last night, 
so-” 

“I am to account for mine,” she broke in with a 
hard laugh. “Well, then, I played Patience for the 
first part of the evening, and afterwards read until I 
went to bed at ten o’clock.” 

“Oh!” Trant seized upon this admission, “so you 
remained in this room for thirty minutes after Miss 
More retired.” * 

“Yes. Do you suggest that Dr. Slanton came to see 
me during that time” she asked, derisively, “and that 
I murdered him?” 

“To use your own words, I suggest nothing. But 
the fact remains that you knew this man, and that his 
body is lying in the wood yonder.” 

“I don’t dispute the facts, but I cannot explain the 
facts.” 

“Cannot, or will not?” 

“Which you like,” she returned, carelessly: then 
when Aileen would have spoken she signed to her to be 
silent. “Let him say what he likes and ask what he 
likes. Knowing nothing I can say nothing.” 



FACING THE WORST 


39 

“Where is your bedroom?” asked Trant, following 
another trail. 

“Across the passage. You can search it if you like.” 
Miss Danby spoke insolently. 

“Thank you. I shall do so at once!” and the officer 
promptly left the parlour to cross the passage and open 
the bedroom door. Immediately the dog, which 
Aileen had shut in earlier, bounced out with joyous 
barks. The girl caught him up in her arms. “For 
God’s sake, Edith, tell the truth,” she bent forward to 
whisper. “Let this man know everything. He looks 
kind.” 

“I have nothing to tell,” said the gaunt woman, be¬ 
tween her clenched teeth, and it was at this moment that 
Trant returned. “You have not been long,” she 
taunted. 

“Long enough to find this,” said the officer, holding 
out an oddly-shaped pipe, with a tiny, tiny bowl and 
a long, long stem. “What is it?” he asked, un¬ 
necessarily. 

“An opium pipe,” replied Edith, knowing well the 
futility of denial. “I suffer from neuralgia, and 
smoke opium to relieve the pain.” 

“Did you smoke last night?” 

“I did. And therefore slept too soundly to hear 
anything.” 

Hitherto Trant had pursued his examination in a 
somewhat desultory manner, peculiar to himself, and 
perhaps not strictly official. Now he sat down, 
placed the opium pipe in his pocket, and assumed an 
authoritative mien. “You did see Dr. Slanton last 
night,” he insisted, positively, “here is the return half¬ 
ticket from Cornby to London, which was found in his 
pocket.” 


40 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“I did not see him,” was the sullen answer. “If he 
came down here last night, it was not to visit me.” 

“Has he other friends in the neighbourhood?” 

“I don’t know—I never asked him.” 

“Miss Danby,” said the Inspector, sternly, and 
looking singularly severe, “you are playing with the 
Law, which I represent. To save yourself from being 
placed in a very dangerous position, it will be better 
for you to speak out.” 

“I have nothing to say,” declared the woman, 
firmly. 

“You have and you must say it. I warn you that 
what you say will be used in evidence against you.” 

“How dare you speak to me like this. I am not a 
criminal,” she flashed out. 

“If you are not, explain this. You smoke opium, 
and the doctor, now examining the body, says that the 
man was drugged with opium.” 

Aileen uttered a cry of terror. Every moment Edith 
was being entangled more and more in the nets of the 
Law: but she tried to defend her friend. “It’s im¬ 
possible that—that Miss Danby should have—should 
have-” 

“Should have drugged Dr. Slanton and then tattooed 
the name ‘Cain’ on his forehead,” finished Trant, em¬ 
phatically. “Why should it be impossible?' But if 
it is impossible as you suggest, I ask Miss Danby to 
explain away the impossibility. Otherwise-” 

“You will arrest me!” broke in the grey woman 
harshly. 

“That depends upon yourself. This one piece of 
evidence”—he tapped his pocket in which he had 
placed the opium-pipe—“is damning proof of your 




FACING THE WORST 


4i 

complicity, and it may be”—he looked round the room 
—“that I may find other proofs.” 

“Search then—search!” was Edith’s reckless de¬ 
fiance. 

Trant nodded, rose, and began to prowl round the 
parlour. Aileen crossed to Edith and sitting down 
beside her, enfolded her in a protective embrace. As 
if aware of the tragic circumstances, Toby, the dog, 
lay quietly on the sofa, watching silently, his nose 
upon his paws. For quite ten minutes the officer pried 
here, there and everywhere, nosing the trail like a 
bloodhound. Nothing, great or small, escaped his 
keen eyes; nothing failed to register itself in his re¬ 
tentive brain. He looked behind the steel-engravings, 
lifted the edges of the carpet, shook the curtains, 
examined the cupboard and drawers of the sideboard, 
peered into the china vases, and even swept the 
Indian cloth off the round table. But nowhere could 
he find anything incriminating. It would seem that 
his first important find would be his last, and Miss 
Danby watched him with sneering lips. She was as 
cold and hard as a stone image; unresponsive to the 
sympathetic embrace of her girl-friend, and un¬ 
naturally calm with the extraordinary self-possession 
of a strong-willed woman. Neither by word, nor deed 
did she attempt to assist the Law to prove her guilt, or 
innocence. It was Kismet. To her—although no one 
knew this but her own tormented self—Trant repre¬ 
sented Fate: and she passively allowed Fate to do as 
Fate would do. Nevertheless, it surprised her, when 
this pseudo Fate made a discovery, which—as seemed 
positive—adjusted the hangman’s rope round her 
neck. 


42 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


It was in the quaint, old-fashioned book-case in the 
far corner that Trant stumbled all of a sudden upon 
his find. Having gone through the room, so far, with 
a fine tooth-comb, as it were, he finally halted before 
this piece of furniture with the intention of shifting 
the books, one by one, in case they might contain a 
clue to the truth. But such precision of search was 
not required, for the moment he flung wide the glass 
doors, sheltering the volumes, a lacquer box of Chinese 
manufacture tumbled out. Picking it up off the floor, 
he lifted the lid to find that the box contained a set of 
tattooing needles, together with divers pigments for 
colouring the skin. Without a word, he walked across 
to the sofa and held this clinching evidence under the 
startled eyes of the silent woman. “Do you still deny 
that you saw Dr. Slanton last night?” he inquired, 
sternly. 

She nodded faintly, summoning up her remaining 
strength for the denial. “I never set eyes on that box 
before.” 

“Or on this?” espying the torn photograph at his 
feet. Trant pieced the fragments together, and im¬ 
mediately the saturnine face of the dead man leaped to 
his eye. 

Sitting breathlessly still, the accused woman stared 
at the photograph, at the lacquer box, at the relentless 
looks of the officer. Then she began to rock to and 
fro, shrilling thinly, the hopeless laughter of Hell. 

“Edith! Edith!” cried Aileen in agonized entreaty, 
and shook her without effect. Terror-stricken, the 
girl turned her white face towards the Inspector. 
“What are you going to do—oh, what are you going 
to do?” 


FACING THE WORST 


43 


“The only thing that is left to me to do/’ he replied, 
with soulless official calmness, and stretched a hand 
towards the woman’s shoulder: “Edith Danby, I ar¬ 
rest you, in the King’s name, for the murder of Cuth- 
bert Slanton. Anything you say now will be used in 
evidence against you.” 

But the frenzied creature only went on laughing 
and laughing and laughing, until Aileen had to close 
her ears to shut out the dreadful merriment. 


CHAPTER IV 


A FRIEND IN NEED 

Although the evidence condemning Edith Danby was 
purely circumstantial, Inspector Trant was fully con¬ 
vinced of her guilt. The lacquer box and the opium 
pipe were, in themselves, sufficient proof of this. Still 
he did not content himself even with such a certainty; 
but questioned both Aileen and Jenny rigorously, as 
to the relations between the living and the dead. From 
the first girl, he forced the reluctant admission that 
Slanton had persecuted the accused woman for many 
months, in the endeavour to bring about a hated 
marriage; from the second, he learned of the frequent 
quarrels between them when they came together. 
Having exhausted all means of information, so far, 
there remained small doubt in the detective’s mind that 
the woman had fervently detested the man, and there¬ 
fore had resorted to violence. If ever a culprit was 
caught red-handed, in Trant’s opinion, that culprit was 
Edith Danby. 

As to Edith herself—she became silent and pre¬ 
sumably indifferent after the hysterical outburst, re¬ 
vealing nothing of her thoughts, however enlightening 
these might be. As the worst had come, she was 
facing the worst with sullen defiance; and although 
Aileen implored her again and yet again, to offer some 
defence, however inadequate, she remained obstinately 
dumb. Even when the Inspector ordered her to go 
44 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


45 


with him to Tarhaven, she said nothing, but walked 
mutely down the avenue with Kemp at her heels. 
Trant remained behind to exchange a few last words 
with Aileen. The girl was pale, but tearless, and the 
officer approved of her reasonable attitude. “Many 
girls would have broken down under the stress and 
strain of these circumstances,” said Trant, patting 
her. 

“I am nearer breaking down than you know of,” 
she answered, breathing hard. 

“All the same you won’t give way, Aileen.” 

“Aileen!” the girl repeated her own name, looking 
at the officer indignantly, as she by no means approved 
of this familiarity. 

Trant’s benignity broke like sunshine through his 
usual official severity, as he took both her hands within 
his own. “You don’t remember me!” 

“No! Yet you say that you knew my father.” 

“I knew your father and I knew you. When you 
were a little child I nursed you many a time on my 
knee. George More was my very good friend and I 
owe him much for helping me out of serious financial 
difficulties at a time when all others left me in the 
lurch. And it is fortunate for you, Aileen, that I do 
not forget my obligation.” 

“Why?” the girl looked distinctly puzzled. “Of 
course I am glad to meet anyone who knew my father; 
especially you, who speak so kindly of him. But I 
fail to understand how your gratitude to him can effect 
me.” 

The Inspector released her hands with a grave smile, 
“Think of your position.” 

“It is a very uncomfortable one,” sighed Aileen, 
disconsolately. 


46 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“It is worse than uncomfortable,” corrected the 
other, pointedly, “it is dangerous—very dangerous.” 

“Dangerous!” she started back in dismay. 

He nodded. “If anyone but myself was in charge 
of this case, you might have to accompany your friend 
to her cell in Tarhaven.” 

“But—but I—I know nothing!” gasped Aileen, 
feeling as though an abyss had opened at her feet. 

“Your friend said the same thing,” commented 
Trant, dryly, “yet we must consider the circumstances 
from a commonsense point of view. Here are two 
women in a lonely cottage, visited regularly by a man 
—possibly a scoundrel—whom they dislike. That man 
is found dead, under suspicious circumstances, a 
stone’s throw from the cottage, and evidence is forth¬ 
coming to indicate clearly that the older woman is 
guilty of his death. Another officer of the law,” 
ended Trant, meaningly, “might arrest the younger 
woman as an accessory before, or after the fact. Now 
do you understand?” 

“Not—not—exactly,” quavered the girl, daunted in 
spite of her inborn self-control, “what do you mean 
by—by—an accessory?” 

“One who helps another person before the commis¬ 
sion of a crime; or one who helps that person to hide 
the crime after it has been committed.” 

“I knew nothing about Dr. Slanton’s death until 
I came across his body in the wood,” protested the 
girl, now fully awake to her danger, “and Edith said 
nothing to lead me to think that she is really and truly 
guilty.” 

“The lacquer box—the opium pipe,” hinted Trant, 
significantly. 

“I never saw the box before and, of course, until 


A FRIEND IN NEED 47 

you reported that Dr. Slanton had been drugged, I 
never gave a thought to the opium pipe.” 

“H’m!” Trant rubbed his chin, doubtfully, “then 
you believe that your friend is innocent—and in the 
face of such damning evidence?” 

“Mr. Trant!” Aileen was very earnest, very direct. 
“I don’t know what to think, or what to say. Miss 
Danby has been, and is, a good kind friend to me, and, 
so far as I know her, one of the sweetest and bravest 
women in the world. It is incredible to me that she 
should brand this man and kill this man, unless she was 
out of her mind at the moment. Then, of course, she 
can’t be held culpable.” 

“H’m! Why should she take leave of her senses?” 

“If you knew, as I do, how that horrible man 
persecuted her, you would easily understand. Also 
her indulgence in opium smoking has weakened her 
nerves—her will-power.” 

“She seems to possess sufficient will-power to keep 
silent,” commented Trant, grimly. “So you think that 
she is guilty.” 

“I can’t—I can’t!” 

“Then you must think of her as innocent.” 

“Yes. I do—I must. Unless her trouble unhinged 
her mind, and made her-” 

The Inspector silenced her with a gesture. “I under¬ 
stand. You are right in believing in your friend: 
to find excuses for her. I am assured, that, so far as 
you know it, you are speaking the truth. But”— 
Trant shook his head gravely—“your view of the 
matter is not my view, nor do I think that, on the 
evidence already to hand, it will be the view of any 
jury. However, we can leave all this alone for the 
moment. I cannot keep you entirely out of the busi- 


4 8 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


ness, as you will have to appear at the inquest; after¬ 
wards as a witness at the Assizes. But, so far as I 
can, I shall protect you.” 

“I don’t want any protection,” flashed out the girl 
vehemently, and with an indignant look. “If you think 
that I am an accessory, as you call it, I am quite will¬ 
ing to go with Edith to Tarhaven.” 

Trant laughed outright and patted her shoulder. 
“There! There! If I were not wholly satisfied that 
you know nothing I would not leave you at large. 
Stay here quietly until I see you again. Constable 
Kemp will look after the cottage.” 

“Oh!” Aileen spoke furiously, “Do you think that 
I’ll run away?” 

“No! No! No! Be reasonable. I must observe 
reasonable precautions. If this cottage is left un¬ 
guarded, the villagers will come prying round.” 

“But you won’t leave the—the body in the wood,” 
said Aileen, shuddering. 

“Certainly not. Before leaving I shall see that it is 
taken down to the village. I expect the inquest will 
take place to-morrow, or the next day, when I have 
looked more closely into matters. Well?”—Trant held 
out his hand. 

Aileen took it with a hearty shake, “You are a good 
kind friend.” 

“I’m all that,” he assured her, as they went to the 
front door, “as you will find, before we are through 
with this case.” 

“You will try and save Edith?” 

“Edith must save herself, if she can, by speaking 
out,” and with a reassuring nod Inspector Trant swung 
down the avenue, while Aileen returned with a sinking 
heart to the parlour. 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


49 


For a young person of such a self-reliant nature, and 
with such clear vision, she felt singularly helpless. 
Her good friend had spoken truly. Edith alone, 
could save herself. And if she refused to do so, by 
speaking out, there seemed nothing for it, but to let 
the law take that course^ which would land her, inno¬ 
cent or guilty, on the gallows. Dark as was the out¬ 
look—and not the very faintest ray of light was visible 
to dispel that darkness—Aileen still clung to the belief 
that Edith was guiltless. She must be, she must be, 
she must be, insisted the thinker, again and again, and 
if she would only confess, she would be able to prove 
herself guiltless. But—here came the doubt—if that 
was the case, why did she not protect herself and im¬ 
mediately. There was no answer to this. 

The girl, seeking for what she could not find, 
groaned in the bitterness of despair, and flung herself 
on to the couch in a state of utter prostration. It was 
impossible to solve the riddle: at the best it could only 
be explained on the assumption that the unhappy 
woman had slain her persecutor, in a moment of mad¬ 
ness, induced by opium. In her sane senses—and 
these were very sane, as the girl knew—Edith would 
never have drugged and marked and murdered the 
wretch, however great the provocation. And yet—and 
yet—Aileen could think calmly no longer, and buried 
her face in the sofa cushion, almost crazy with con¬ 
flicting thoughts. Round and round these swirled, in 
a mental maelstrom of perpetually repeating bewilder¬ 
ment. 

Then Jenny Walton entered the parlour, stolid, slow¬ 
footed, but helpful, since she brought tea and comfort¬ 
able advice. “Come, come, Miss Aileen,” coaxed 
this red-haired angel of sympathy, in her heavy 


50 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


dragging voice, “there ain’t no use in taking on so. 
4 ’Earts up,’ as mother ses, she being a Baptist and 
’appy in ’er sorrers as never was. ’Ere’s bread and 
butter and tea: both uf them will ’elp you to bear up. 
Y’ can’t be jiful with an empty inside, nohow.” 

“You’re very kind, Jenny.” Aileen sat up with a 
sigh and accepted a cup of tea thankfully, “I am 
thirsty, but not hungry.” 

“Shell I boil y’ an egg, or grill a rasher of bacon, 
you pore dear?” 

“No thank you, Jenny. I’ll drink this tea, and then 
try to sleep for an hour.” 

The servant nodded approvingly. “You’re fair 
wore out, and small wonder with the goings on of ’er.” 

“Not a word against Miss Danby,” commanded 
Aileen energetically. 

“But they ses in the village-” 

“I don’t care what they say. Miss Danby is inno¬ 
cent. Do you hear? Innocent.” 

“Oh I ’ear,” sniffed Jenny, disbelievingly, “and I 
only ’ope as the judge and jury’ll ’ear likewise. I 
knows as you’re true blue, stickin’ to ’er, Miss Aileen, 
but she’s gone and done it, as sure as sure. And I 
dunno as I blame ’er much,” ended Jenny, rubbing 
her nose thoughtfully. “I’d hev put a knife inter 
’im meself fur ’arf the things es he chucked at ’er. 
‘Wimen ’ave their feelings,’ as mother ses, and feelings 
is feelings, smother them es you like.” 

“Oh let me sleep, Jenny,” said Aileen wearily and 
handing back the cup, “that is, if I can, with all this 
trouble.” 

“Don’t let yourself be worrited, Miss Aileen. It’ll 
be over sooner or later, when they try ’er and ’ang ’er 
and bury ’er, and then we’ll be ’appy agin. Oh, I’m 



A FRIEND IN NEED 


5i 


going—I’m going!’’ Jenny took up the tray hastily, 
for there was an ominous look of rebuke in the eyes of 
her young mistress, “But I never did see anyone as 
stuck closer nor a mustard plaster to ’er, as you’re 
doing. It’s a case of ‘ ’Old the fort and keep yer tail 
up,’ es mother ses, she being given to clever ways of 
putting things,” and she retreated from the parlour 
with the tread of an elephant, unrebuked, since Aileen 
could find no reply. All she wanted to do was to sleep, 
and sleep, and sleep. And sleep she did shortly, utterly 
exhausted by the tumultuous doings of the day. 

Jenny returned to her kitchen, after acting as a 
Job’s comforter, and sat down to consider how she 
could help the girl. This phlegmatic damsel had her 
likes and dislikes very clearly defined. She objected 
to Miss Danby’s cold dominance, and keep-at-your- 
distance attitude, which “froze her marrer,” as she 
put it; but she had a warm corner in her plebeian heart 
for the younger woman. Aileen had been her friend 
from the first, treating her as a human being, and not 
as a machine. Always suspicious of the better classes 
and their aloof attitude, Jenny was moved out of her 
ordinary stolidity by the unusual sympathy of the 
girl. Aileen had given her ribbons and gloves, some¬ 
times sweets and cheap jewellery ; she had advised her 
as to the colour and cut of ambitious Sunday frocks; 
and once, on a red-letter day, had presented her with 
a pair of real silk stockings. Finally this paragon of 
mistresses had taken an interest in Jenny s family 
troubles, in Jenny’s love-afifairs, and had made useful 
suggestions for the betterment of both. 

This being so, the grateful servant cast about in her 
slow-thinking mind to find some means of helping the 
girl in her dire trouble. The name of Mr. Richard 


52 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Hustings, the attentions of Mr. Richard Hustings, 
occurred to her, and she nodded approval of the 
thought. Here was a helper, if Miss More was willing 
to accept him as such. He was a lawyer, as well as a 
lover, and the qualities of both were admirably fitted 
to deal with things as they were. Having reached 
this point in her meditations, Jenny decided to take 
action, and meanwhile occupied herself with various 
domestic duties until the day was waning. Then she 
went through the village and beyond the village on an 
errand, which resulted in a surprise to Aileen. For 
the girl awoke from long hours of restorative slumber 
to find Mr. Richard Hustings comfortably seated in 
an arm-chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. She 
sat up hurriedly and stared, while the young man stood 
up and smiled. “I thought it was best to let you sleep 
on, and waken naturally,” he said in a soothing voice. 

“How on earth did you come here?” asked Aileen, 
somewhat dazed. 

“Jenny thought that I might be a friend in need, and 
came to tell me of your trouble. I hope you don’t 
think that I am taking a liberty ?” 

“No!” she rose wearily, “you are very kind to come. 
I need help.” 

“All that I can give is at your disposal,” said 
Hustings, earnestly. “Let me light the lamp, and tell 
Jenny to bring you something to eat. Then we can 
talk.” 

When the dingy old parlour was illuminated, the 
new-comer revealed himself as a brown-locked, brown¬ 
faced young fellow; clean-shaven, well-groomed, with 
the whitest of even teeth and the brightest of brown 
eyes. He suggested less the lawyer than the soldier, 
and even in his civilian suit of darkly blue serge looked 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


53 


the genuine military commander. And naturally so, 
since it is difficult to discard five years of army dis¬ 
cipline in a moment, if, indeed, such can ever be dis¬ 
carded. Aileen liked him more than a little, and knew 
instinctively that he loved her dearly. Had she per¬ 
mitted her innermost feelings to sway her, she could 
easily have drawn a declaration from him on many 
occasions. But, so far, an innate maidenly fear had 
prevented her from casting her net. Aileen was never 
Diana the huntress, and preferred to fly, rather than 
to follow. Yet so heavy with woe was the hour that 
she wished it were possible for her to throw herself on 
to his broad breast, to nestle within the circle of his 
comforting arms. The poor child, utterly exhausted 
with groping her way through the very misty present, 
longed to find an immediate future of perfect rest. 

The young man, sensitive lover as he was, guessed 
this swiftly, and forthwith took advantage of the 
weakness. Not meanly, be it understood, since he 
realized that only by establishing intimate relations 
between them, could be help truly. The so-far of¬ 
fensive attitude on his part and defensive on hers 
interposed a barrier, which must needs be removed if 
the sure confidence necessary for working harmoni¬ 
ously and understanding^ together, was to be attained. 
So Mr. Richard Hustings went blithely over the top— 
that is, he deliberately removed the barrier. “Aileen,” 
he said bluntly, adding in answer to her startled look, 
“Oh yes, I know you think that I am taking a liberty, 
but if I am to help you, it is necessary to be bold. 
For the time being—until we clear up things—I am 
your big brother, and you are my little sister. Under¬ 
stand ? So you must call me Dick, and I shall call you 
Aileen. Is that plain?” 


54 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Very plain,” she retorted, dryly, “but-” 

“No ‘buts.’ Let us be primitive man and woman 
—pals—comrades—partners, while this trouble lasts. 
Afterwards we can return to the civilized keep-your- 
distance stunt.” 

“I never kept you at your distance,” said the fem¬ 
inine in Aileen, tartly. 

“Some unprejudiced observer might have thought 
so. Anyhow, if that poor creature is to be saved we 
must have a common ground of understanding.” 

Aileen shirked a direct answer. “You call Edith a 
poor creature, and that term suggests pity. Do you 
believe her to be innocent?” 

“As a lawyer and in the face of what evidence I 
have heard, it is impossible for me to do that; but as a 
man, I can’t think that she would act in so cold¬ 
blooded a manner. What does she say in the way of 
excuse ?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Then you and I will have to find out what is at the 
back of that nothing.” 

“And in the meantime you agree to think her 
innocent?” 

“As a lawyer I am bound to do so, until she is 
proved guilty.” 

“Mr. Trant thinks that he has proved it.” 

“So I gathered from the fact that Trant has taken 
her to Tarhaven. So far, the evidence is against her: 
but we may find, by looking into things, that she is not 
so black as our worthy Inspector paints her.” 

“Then you will help me—really and truly do your 
best—Dick!” Aileen said the name, and held out her 
hand to show that she accepted the brotherly-and- 
sisterly partnership. 



A FRIEND IN NEED 


55 


“Aileen!” he grasped her hand warmly, restraining 
himself by a great effort from kissing it. Then feeling 
that, mere man as he was, this suggested playing with 
fire, he hastily dropped her hand, and became advisedly 
common-place. “I think you might ask me to have 
some dinner,” he said, reproachfully, “I’m starving.” 

“Strange to say, so am I,” replied the girl, know¬ 
ing full well that he was suggesting the meal mainly 
for her sake. “It seems heartless though,” she added, 
soberly, “when Edith is locked up and in such dire 
straits.” 

“Nonsense!” cried Dick, bluffly, “you need all your 
strength to assist her, and silly fasting would only pre¬ 
vent your doing it. Eat, drink, and be—sensible!” 
said he, striding to open the door and cry the cry of 
the famished to Jenny. 

“You are—very brotherly,” gasped Aileen, amazed 
at these masterful ways. 

He looked at her with twinkling eyes. “Oh, Eve, 
why should not Adam give you the apple to eat 
occasionally?” 

“Meaning? 1 ”—but what he did mean by this cryptic 
speech was never revealed, for Jenny interrupted, by 
entering with a full tray, just as she spoke. 

“I knowed you’d eat and hev bin cooking this larst 
hour,” stated the damsel, proceeding to cover the round 
table with a snow-white cloth, “fried chops and per- 
taters, rice puddin’ with custerd to toiler. There 
ain’t no drinks.” 

“We’ll have tea,” said Aileen, helping the domestic 
to place plates and spoons and knives and forks, “if 
you?”—she looked questioningly at her guest. 

“Of course,” he nodded, “I learned tea-drinking in 
the Army. The cup that cheers’-—quite so. I agree 


56 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


with Cowper.” He brought a chair to the table. “Sit, 
madam.” 

With a smile at his humour, Aileen observed, when 
Jenny left the room to prepare the tea, “I wish I could 
tempt your appetite with daintier food.” 

“It is your appetite I’m concerned with,” said Hus¬ 
tings, drawing in his chair. “To me this food and 
drink are the nectar and ambrosia of Olympus.” 

“What imagination!” 

“Coue suggestion!” smiled Dick, well-pleased to 
wean her from dismal brooding. “To think a thing, is 
to have the thing. Let us consider this a banquet.” 

And a banquet they made of it, despite dreary cir¬ 
cumstances, eating the untempting chops, devouring 
the rice pudding, and emptying the tea-pot. At the 
end of the meal, Hustings, gay throughout, became 
grave. “Now for business,” said he. 


CHAPTER V 


SEEKING FOR LIGHT 

There was no doubt that the presence of Hustings and 
his eminently common-sense method of dealing with 
her stormy mood, improved Aileen into a better frame 
of mind. Good food, and cheerful conversation, did 
wonders towards strengthening her to meet with 
equanimity what further troubles the future might 
hold. Recognizing that tears and wordy lamentations 
would hinder, rather than help, the girl addressed her¬ 
self with calm resolution to the task in hand. “Before 
we begin to talk,” she informed her co-worker, “it 
will be best to get Jenny to clear away, as we don’t 
want any interruption,” and she forthwith summoned 
the domestic to do what was required. 

Jenny obeyed with cumbersome jocularity, greatly 
gratified that her cooking had been appreciated. “Left 
nothing but the dishes, you ’ave,” said Jenny, tramp¬ 
ing out of the parlour with a laden tray and when 
alone on the hither side of the door, she murmured 
a benediction on the young couple. “And I do ’ope 
as they’ll tork of themselves, ’stead of ’er, as is only 
gitting wot she’s bin arsking fur. Them two dears 
is well rid of ’er, I don’t think!” She chuckled 
hoarsely and glanced longingly at the key-hole. The 
temptation to peer and listen was great; but, as she 
regarded herself as the fairy godmother of the lovers, 
57 


58 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


the temptation was nobly withstood. “Shouldn’t like 
sich poll-prying meself, when I’m with ’im,” was her 
conclusion, and she plunged heavily along the passage 
into the kitchen. 

The sympathetic damsel would have been woefully 
disappointed had she lingered to overhear the prosaic 
conversation of her godchildren. “You can smoke,” 
said Aileen, five minutes later, after making herself 
comfortable on the sofa. 

“And you?”—Hustings, in the arm-chair opposite, 
held out his cigarette-case. 

She shook her head seriously. “I have not that 
redeeming vice.” 

“Glad of it,” said Dick, shortly, “not that it’s wrong 
for a woman to smoke, but somehow it doesn’t fit in 
with my conception of an angel.” 

“Oh!” said Aileen with innocent malice, “does 
your angel smoke then?” 

He was quite equal to her. “She has just informed 
me that she doesn’t.” 

This rash speech was rebuked with a frown. “We 
are brother and sister,” she reminded him, pointedly, 
then ran her fingers through the feathery gold of her 
hair with a shame-faced look. “Oh, how can I talk 
such nonsense and hear you talk it, when Edith is in 
such trouble. I feel a selfish cat.” 

Dick lighted a cigarette and leaned back in his arm¬ 
chair. “If you will compare yourself to that animal, 
remember that cats are sensible as well as selfish. 
The nonsense you speak of has done you good.” 

“I do feel quieter,” she confessed. 

“That is the state of mind to which I have endeav¬ 
oured to bring you. Now that success has crowned 
my efforts we can discuss this rotten business. Tell 


SEEKING FOR LIGHT 


59 


me all about it. Begin at the beginning and go on 
straightly to the end, without leaving out anything you 
have seen or heard/’ 

Aileen obeyed to the letter, and detailed all that had 
happened from the time when she sat at breakfast with 
Edith down to the moment when her listener found 
her sleeping on the sofa. She made no comment on 
what she told, saying neither “yea” or “nay,” but 
simply gave the bald facts, thereby winning the appro¬ 
bation of the lawyer. “You will make an excellent 
witness,” he said. 

“Not in Edith’s favour,” she returned, sadly, and 
wiping her eyes. 

“I speak with reference to the clear way in which 
you have set forth all you know!” Hustings threw 
away his cigarette and lighted another, “I must say 
that your evidence is very much against Miss Danby,” 
he concluded, meditatively. 

“Then I shan’t give it.” 

“You will be forced to give it. Don’t be silly. Any 
hesitation on your part would only make matters worse. 
Speak the truth, the whole truth, and^-” 

“But you said just now that what I say is dead 
against Edith,” she interrupted. 

“I say it again. It’s no use mincing matters, Aileen. 
Your friend is in a very dangerous position. If pos¬ 
sible you and I must get her out of it.” 

“How?” 

“There you have me! I don’t agree with your 
theory that Miss Danby killed the man, in a fit of rage, 
or under the influence of opium. The crime was 
planned deliberately—executed deliberately. Slanton 
was drugged, his forehead was tattooed when he lay 
insensible, and finally he was strangled.” 



6o 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Strangled?” Aileen started up from the sofa, 
aghast. 

“I made it my business to see the doctor—the 
Divisional-surgeon attached to the Tarhaven police- 
service. He is an old friend of mine, and let out more 
than perhaps was wise at the moment. I told him that 
I would be at the inquest to watch the case on Miss 
Danby’s behalf.” 

“Oh you are good,” said the girl, gratefully, “but 
this strangling-?” 

“Oh it’s plain enough. There are the marks round 
the man’s throat, showing a remarkably strong grip. 
That doesn’t sound to me like a woman’s work. Nor 
do I understand why the name ‘Cain’ was tattooed. 
Cain suggests the first murderer, so the person who 
branded the poor devil must have some reason to be¬ 
lieve that his victim was a murderer.” 

“Then you think the criminal is a man?” 

“At this stage I can’t offer any opinion on that point. 
I am only seeking for a clue. The crime looks to me 
like one of revenge.” 

Aileen spoke in a low tone and her voice quavered, 
“Edith hated the man.” 

“Yes. But I don’t think she would have revenged 
herself upon him so coarsely. If she found him a nui¬ 
sance she could easily have gone to America, as she 
suggested. Why should she risk her neck, when there 
was such an easy way of escape?” 

“It does seem strange,” pondered the girl, with her 
eyes on the carpet. “Also if Dr. Slanton was drugged 
and branded and strangled in this room, I certainly 
would have heard some noise.” 

“And you heard nothing?” 

“Not a sound. Nor did Jenny, who sleeps upstairs 



SEEKING FOR LIGHT 


61 


in the attic at the back of the house. Of course the 
walls are very thick—all the same, it seems impossible 
that Edith could have executed such a crime without 
one of us hearing something likely to bring us down¬ 
stairs.” 

“Was Miss Danby her usual self when you joined 
her at breakfast?” 

Aileen shrugged her shoulders. “It is hard to say, 
she has so many selves. One thing she confessed— 
that she had been smoking opium.” 

“Also, she cried to you not to go into the wood,” 
mused the lawyer, harking back to Aileen’s story. 
“She must have known that the body was in the 
wood.” 

“But how could she have dragged the body there, or, 
indeed, have strangled the man? Edith was a strong 
woman, once, but worry and the opium-smoking 
have made a wreck of her. And, apart from her 
physical weakness, her mind is not strong enough 
for the same reasons to plan and execute such a 
crime.” 

“Well, the man was drugged with opium, and we 
know that Miss Danby possessed opium. Then the 
lacquer-box-?” 

“I never saw that until Mr. Trant found it in the 
book-case. Nor did Edith, I feel convinced. What 
on earth would she do with a box of tattooing instru¬ 
ments, unless she got them for this purpose? And, 
as I say, she hasn’t sufficient will-power to do what she 
is accused of doing.” 

“Well!” Hustings rose and began to pace the room 
leisurely, “it comes to this: that Miss Danby is inno¬ 
cent, but that some enemy of hers and Slanton has 
brought about this devilment to do away with him and 



62 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


get her out of the way. It is a case of killing two 
birds with one stone,” he turned suddenly to face the 
girl. “Had she any enemies?” 

“Only Dr. Slanton, whom she hated. I know of 
no others.” 

“Then we must look into Slanton’s past and find 
out who desired his death, and who wished that death 
to implicate Miss Danby. What do you know of the 
man?” 

“Very little. He was a bad-tempered beast, greedy 
and selfish and reckless to a degree, when he wanted 
to get his own way. I am sure he had some hold over 
Edith and was blackmailing her.” 

“You told me that your brother left Miss Danby 
two thousand a year?” 

“Yes!” 

“And it was that money Slanton was after?” 

“Yes. Edith said so.” 

“Couldn’t he have forced her to give up the money 
without marriage?” 

“I can’t say. Anyhow, Edith refused to give him 
anything, notwithstanding all his threats, so he thought 
that the only way to get the money was to marry 
her.” 

“What threats did he use?” 

“I can’t tell you. Edith told me nothing. I ad¬ 
vised her to seek the protection of the police, but she 
refused.” 

“Odd,” mused Hustings, chin in hand, “very odd. 
If Slanton had such power over her that she dared not 
invoke the aid of the law, it is strange that he did not 
succeed either in marrying her, or in wresting the 
money from her without marriage. It seems to me,” 
he summed up, “that if Slanton knew something 


SEEKING FOR LIGHT 63 

against Miss Danby, Miss Danby knew something 
against Slanton. They were both in it.” 

“Both in what?” asked Aileen, impatiently. 

“In some mess, in which both were equally culpable. 
Neither one could split on the other.” 

The girl set her mouth firmly, “I can’t believe that 
Edith ever did anything wrong,” she said, after a 
pause. 

“My dear young innocent, Miss Danby was kind to 
you and evidently attractive enough to gain the affec¬ 
tions of your brother. But, if I am not mistaken, she 
has a temper stowed away somewhere?” 

“I never saw it.” 

“Perhaps not. But remember you knew her of late 
as a broken woman.” 

Aileen nodded with a sigh. “Yes. Ten years ago, 
so far as I can recollect, she was a bright-natured, 
brilliant, hard-working secretary to my father.” 

“Then since that time she must have got herself into 
some hobble along with Slanton, and so took to the 
drug which has wrecked her.” Dick paused, and after 
a turn up and down the room, faced Aileen again. 
“Are you sure that your father is dead?” he asked, 
pointedly. 

“No. He is missing, but there is no positive knowl¬ 
edge to show that he is dead.” 

“I wish he would return. He might throw some 
light on the subject.” 

“But—but”—Aileen stared—“what can Father pos¬ 
sibly know of this matter?” 

“He knew Miss Danby years ago, and may be able 
to tell us something of her past. In that past is to be 
found the reason for her commission of this crime.” 

“Oh! You believe then, that she is guilty?” 


64 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Trant does, and very thoroughly/’ replied the 
young man. “No. What with one thing and another 
I fancy she is innocent. But why on earth doesn’t 
she speak out and proclaim her innocence?” 

“I can’t say,” the girl looked disconsolate, “all the 
same I believe that she is innocent.” 

“Just because you like her; because she has been kind 
to you. That is a very feminine reason.” Hustings 
shrugged his shoulders and resumed his perambula¬ 
tion. “Hanged if I can see into this,” he muttered 
between his teeth. 

“Oh don’t say that, Dick. We must do some¬ 
thing.” 

“We’ll do something right enough, but the thing is 
how to begin—what trail to follow. If Miss Danby 
would only speak out.” 

“She won’t. I have done all I can to make her 
speak.” 

“Well I shall watch over her interests at the inquest, 
and afterwards, when the verdict is given against 
her-” 

“Oh, Dick! Dick!” Aileen covered her face with 
trembling hands, rocking and wailing with many 
shudderings. 

Hustings, checked in his stride, glared angrily at this 
exhibition of nerves, and sat down on the sofa to shake 
her into strength—that strength which arises from in¬ 
dignation. “If you are to work long-side me you 
must get over showing any feminine weakness. I 
have no use for squealers!” and he shook her again— 
this time very thoroughly. 

“You—you are—are a brute.” Aileen pulled her¬ 
self away and her eyes blazed. 

The young man laughed, jumping up briskly as he 



SEEKING FOR LIGHT 


65 

did so. “That’s better. You have lots of pluck, 
tucked away somewhere. Summon every ounce of it 
to your aid, to my aid, for we are both up against it, 
and no mistake.” 

“You—you needn’t have shaken—shaken me.” 

“I’ll shake you again, and yet again, if it’s for your 
good,” Dick assured her, grimly, “you are my asso¬ 
ciate in this damnable business and must obey orders, 
if we are to pull it off. When you allow me to 
love you and marry you, I’ll be as—er—sloppy as you 
like.” 

“Love you—marry you!” she glared in her turn. 
“You expect that when you go on like this?” 

“I’m a cave man, pulling the rough stuff. This 
isn’t any Romeo and Juliet affair, so far. That’ll 
come in time.” 

“It won’t,” cried Aileen, angrily, “I don’t like 
sloppy love-making.” 

“Oh that’s all right. I have other ways, when asked 
for,” said this audacious lover, lightly, then suddenly 
became serious, as he glanced at his wrist-watch. 
“Don’t fool round, partner. What I say is, that when 
Miss Danby has a verdict of wilful murder brought 
against her at the inquest—and I’m hanged if I can see 
the jury deciding otherwise—I’ll interview her, where- 
ever she may be locked up, and ask her to accept me 
as her solicitor.” 

“She won’t have anything to do with the Law, I tell 
you,” insisted the girl. 

“And I tell you that she’s jolly well got to cut her 
coat according to her cloth. Only a servant of the 
Law, such as I am, can get her out of the grip of the 
Law. I’ll make her speak out,” he ended, confi¬ 
dently. 


66 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“You can’t. If she wouldn’t tell me, she certainly 
won’t tell you.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” replied Hustings, dryly. 
“I rather think she will, when she fully realizes that 
silence means hanging. Also, there is a sure way of 
forcing her into confession.” 

“What way is that?” asked Aileen, breathless with 
hope. 

“You are the way, my dear girl. Think of your 
position: free on sufferance only while your father’s 
friend, Trant, continues to act like the brick he is. 
If Miss Danby loves you—and she says she does—she 
won’t risk your being dragged into her gutter-doings, 
and so will own up.” 

“I refuse to hear you talk of gutter-doings in con¬ 
nection with Edith.” Aileen spoke with marked dig¬ 
nity and loyal devotion. 

“You have heard my talk already, and I’ll repeat 
the same if you like,” said Dick, calmly brutal. 
“Strong measures are required to break down Miss 
Danby’s wall of silence,” he paused for a moment: 
then, “Well-?” 

“I think she loves me sufficiently to save me from 
danger,” faltered the girl much distressed, “but I don’t 
wish to be free at the risk of her condemnation,” and 
Aileen broke down, crying softly. 

“There! There!” Dick patted her shoulder with 
extreme tenderness and only wished that he dare offer 
the consolation of a warm embrace, “Buck up; never 
say die. When bravely faced, things are never so bad 
as they seem. My handkerchief!” 

“Thank you, I have one of my own,” sobbed Aileen, 
refusing the offer resentfully. 

Hustings laughed, although in his heart of hearts he 



SEEKING FOR LIGHT 


67 


was far from feeling in any way gay. His studied 
bullying was merely intended to arouse the girl to 
action. And action immediate and strong was re¬ 
quired if Edith Danby was to be saved—against her 
will, as it would seem. Hustings was immensely 
sorry for the unfortunate woman, struggling so help¬ 
lessly in the coils of circumstance, and honestly wished 
to free her, if possible, from their tangle. But, as 
things were, it was hard to know what to think—how 
to act. “This dead man—this Slanton?” he asked, 
abruptly, casting about for some kind of a beginning, 
“What was he like? I never set eyes on him, you 
know. ,, 

Aileen dried her eyes, regaining composure under 
the stress of the moment. “He was tall and thin and 
dark, with a lean savage-looking face, clean-shaven and 
really cruel in expression. His hair was so curly that 
I think he must have had black blood in him. Oh— 
and he had very white teeth, which showed like a wolf 
when he was angry. He snarled/’ she went on, ener¬ 
getically, “snarled horribly, as if he was one of those 
werewolves we read of.” 

“And which belong to fiction,” said Hustings the 
materialist. “How did he dress? One can learn 
much of a man’s character from the way in which he 
dresses.” 

“I don’t think he differed much from the ordinary 
man,” said Aileen, closing her eyes to call up a picture, 
“a grey tweed suit with a cap to match and brown 
shoes. And an orange neck-tie—he said that orange 
was his colour—with a turquoise-set swastika as a 
tie-pin.” 

“Ho!” Dick pinched his chin, reflectively, “orange 
was his colour was it: and a swastika tie-pin. Both 


68 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


those things suggest occult leanings. A trifle of 
Hindoo blood, may be. The fakir stunt—clairvoyance 
—and—and such-like.” 

“I don’t know,” said the girl thoughtfully, “he 
certainly believed in spiritualism. Table-turning, auto¬ 
matic-writing, and-” 

“Yes! Yes! I understand. He was one of those 
charlatans who pretend to superphysical powers.” 

“No! to be honest Dick, I don’t think he went that 
far. But he was a spiritualist, I know, and talked a 
lot about Edith being his soul-mate.” 

“I hope the blighter didn’t rope you into his silly 
foolery?” 

“Don’t be jealous, Dick. He had no eyes for me 
when Edith was about. I hadn’t any money to attract 
him.” 

“A spiritualist,” murmured Hustings, reassured as 
to the direction of the dead man’s attentions, “that’s 
something of a clue. I’ll travel round London and 
look up the caste. From some member I may learn 
something about Slanton’s shady past. For shady it 
is, I swear, going by the description you give.” 

“Is that all you can do?” said Aileen, rather dis¬ 
mayed at this weak termination to their interesting 
conversation. 

Dick shrugged his square shoulders. “All I can do 
at present. We must go slowly—inch by inch, my 
dear, line upon line. Rome wasn’t built in a day. 
The chief thing is to learn what connection there is 
between Miss Danby and this black scoundrel. When 
we know that, we shall know who killed him.” 

“Not Edith!” Aileen rose, indignantly, “Not 
Edith!” 

“I hope not, but—one never knows. There! 



SEEKING FOR LIGHT 


69 


There! Don’t get into a wax. I don’t deny but 
what there may be some other person in the business.” 

“If there is, and I truly believe there is, that person 
brought the lacquer box into the house,” said the girl, 
decisively. 

“How do you know ? It may belong to Miss 
Danby.” 

“No. That was one of the few things she confessed 
r—that the box did not belong to her. And I think she 
speaks truly. I never saw the box before, and I have 
opened the glass-doors of that book-case again and 
again, when I wanted something to read.” 

“It was found in the book-case?” 

“Yes. And by Mr. Trant. The moment he opened 
the door the box fell out. Someone must have placed 
it there, and, if so, that someone is the guilty person.” 

“But how could anyone have got into the house? 
By the door, by the window? If this thing is what the 
Americans call ‘a frame-up,’ it must be the window.” 

“Perhaps!” said Aileen, doubtfully, and glancing to¬ 
wards the window with its noticeably low sill, “any¬ 
one could get into this room by pushing up the lower 
sash. There’s only a snick to keep it down.” 

By this time Hustings was across the room examin¬ 
ing the window, which was closed and fastened. “So 
I perceive! Aileen,” he turned suddenly, “was this 
window snicked safely last night?” 

“Yes. I closed it myself. I always do.” 

“Was it snicked this morning?” 

“Oh!” as the doings of the breakfast hour occurred 
to her, she ran across the parlour to join the young 
man. “No, it wasn’t.” 

“Are you positive—sure—certain?” 

“Yes! Yes! Yes! I opened the window to let in 


;o 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


the cool air as the room was so hot with the fire. The 
sash went up quite easily/’ she reflected. “No, I am 
certain that it wasn’t snicked. But then,”—her face 
fell—“Edith was at breakfast before me and may have 
opened it before I joined her.” 

“We’ll ask her. But I rather think,”—Dick ma¬ 
nipulated the snick and pushed up the lower sash— 
“that someone has tinkered with this,” he pointed to 
the frame of the upper sash, seen through the glass of 
the lower one. The ancient white paint was broken 
here and there, and one long sliver of wood was shaved 
ofif cleanly. “A knife has been used here,” said Dick 
hurriedly, “thrust in between the upper and lower 
sashes to push back the snick. Aileen, I begin to 
believe that there is another person concerned in this 
matter.” 

“So do I,” she sparkled, all vivacity and intense in¬ 
terest, and that other person hid the lacquer-box in 
the book-case to incriminate Edith.” 

Hustings nodded. “After using its contents to 
tattoo Slanton! Miss Danby’s past—Slanton’s past— 
we must look there for the person in question.” 

“Oh Dick, Dick! She is innocent,” Aileen clasped 
his arm excitedly. 

“Go slowly. One swallow doesn’t make a summer. 
But—we’ve made a beginning.” 


CHAPTER VI 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 

The judicial inquiry into the death of Cuthbert Slanton 
was held in a large wooden building, with a corrugated 
iron roof : one of the hastily constructed make-shifts of 
the war. It stood on an untidy patch of ground at the 
far end of the village, midway between the church and 
the manor-house. Hither an excited throng of people 
turned eager steps, two days after the discovery of the 
crime. By piecing together fly-about information, 
gathered promiscuously, the majority had come to as¬ 
sure themselves that the inquest was a mere formality, 
by reason of the truth being already known. 

Slanton—so ran the many rumours—had visited 
Miss Danby secretly in the night, which said little for 
her reputation. She had induced him to join her in an 
opium debauch, and, when he became insensible, had 
strangled him remorselessly, before dragging him for 
burial in the wood. So far the evidence was suffi¬ 
ciently clear and direct, but there was nothing to show 
why the man had been murdered, or why his forehead 
had been scored with a suggestive Biblical name. 
These were the questions asked by one and all: ques¬ 
tions to which no one received any answer. 

Scenting a mystery, many journalists, both metro¬ 
politan and provincial, were hot on the trail, each one 
hoping to solve it to the honour and glory of his own 
particular newspaper. The village hummed with their 
activities, like a bee-hive in swarming time, and they 
7i 


72 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


made as many inquiries as to the reason for this and 
for that, as a six year old child. The resulting infor¬ 
mation was decidedly mixed and untrustworthy; some 
saying one thing, some another, but sufficient was ac¬ 
quired to damn the accused woman as a vampire of 
the worst kind. The villagers had approved of Aileen, 
all youthful charm and vivacity, but Edith Danby had 
never been a favourite, because of her keep-off-the- 
grass attitude, and evasive habits of life. Therefore, 
when she arrived in Fryfeld, under the protective wing 
of Inspector Trant, they greeted her with groans and 
stones, condemning her, unheard, after the usual fash¬ 
ion of the ignorant. Aileen, soberly dressed, and 
heavily veiled, clung anxiously to Hustings, as he es¬ 
corted her to the scene of the inquiry. She could 
not understand this amazing injustice of putting the 
cart before the horse. “Why can’t they wait until 
Edith defends herself?’’ she asked, piteously. 

“Oh, it’s the senseless cry of all the ages. Crucify! 
Crucify! The blind passion of the mob-spirit, always 
more ready to curse than to bless.” 

“But Edith has done them no harm?” 

“What does that matter?” questioned Dick, cyni¬ 
cally. “She’s their Aunt Sally for the time being, and 
they’ll make a cock-shy of her until they grow tired.” 

“What if she proves her innocence?” 

“Then they’ll probably wreath her with flowers. 
The ignorant are always in extremes. Think of the 
Duke of Wellington and the broken windows of Apsley 
House.” 

Aileen sighed at this gross exhibition of human in¬ 
stability, and submitted to be conducted by her lover 
into the bleak, bare building, the interior of which was 
vaporous with grey autumnal mists. It contained only 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 


73 


a few chairs for the jurymen, several forms for the 
witnesses, and a small table for the use of the Coroner. 
The general public had to stand, and crowded the 
lower portion of the vast expanse, shepherded by three 
or four policemen: uncomfortable enough for the next 
hour, but so highly interested in the baiting of one 
tormented woman, as to be oblivious thereto. It 
might- have been a witch-trial of several hundred years 
back, so venomous were the looks directed towards 
the miserable creature, for whom they had no pity. 
She, herself, was indifferent to this atmosphere of 
causeless hatred, and sat, swathed from head to foot 
in a hooded grey cloak, staring vacantly before her. 
Aileen’s heart ached. “Can't I sit beside her and hold 
her hand?” she whispered to Dick. 

“Better not; there is a nasty feeling abroad. Rest 
quietly here, while I ask for Trant’s permission to speak 
with her, as a possible client.” 

The girl caught swiftly at his hand, as he stepped 
away. “Tell her I love her—I love her. Only that— 
I love her." 

Hustings squeezed her hand reassuringly, nodded 
assent, and, making his way through a cluster of 
jurymen, explained himself tersely to the Inspector. 
“Oh, of course, you can ask if she will accept you as 
her solicitor,” said Trant, immediately, and the young 
man crossed over to the motionless figure. 

Edith did not look up, when he bent down to make 
his proposal, but nodded a silent consent. Only when 
Hustings murmured Aileen’s message softly was she 
moved to speech, “Say that I love her, and trust 
her.” 

“Will you prove that you do, by defending yourself 
—by speaking out?” 


74 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“So far as in me lies—yes!” and Edith, crossing her 
hands on her breast to grip her shoulders, looked more 
pale and gaunt and unapproachable than ever. 

With this ambiguous reply, Hustings contented him¬ 
self for the time being, and, at the outset of the pro¬ 
ceedings, announced himself as present to watch over 
the interests of Miss Danby. The hot-heads at the hall 
doors grumbled more than a little, that he should op¬ 
pose himself to their expressed opinions. But, finally, 
the feudal spirit, obedient to the Squire, admitted that 
he was acting like a sportsman. “Not as he’ll do 
anything much,” said everyone to everyone, “he’s 
wasting his breath is the Squire. She’s a bad lot, is 
that one.” And a woman clinched poor Edith’s evil 
reputation by loudly calling, “Jezebel! Jezebel!” shak¬ 
ing her fist vigorously as she shouted. 

A short speech from the Coroner, confined to dry 
statements as to the why and the wherefore of the 
meeting, opened the proceedings. This was followed 
by Inspector Trant’s explanation of all that he had 
heard and found, since taking charge of the case. 
The contents of the dead man’s pockets were displayed 
on the table, and the officer particularly drew the 
attention of the jury to the return half-ticket from 
Cornby to London. He also produced the opium pipe, 
and the lacquer-box with its ominous furnishings. 
As the twelve good men and true had already inspected 
the body with its branded forehead, this last exhibit 
vanquished any doubts they might have entertained 
as to the possible innocence of the woman, to whom it 
presumably belonged. Trant, likewise, gave further 
necessary details, baldly, but convincingly; and ended 
his oration by calling upon the Divisional-surgeon to 
give evidence. 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 


75 


This important witness did not take long to explain 
himself. From an examination of the corpse, he 
asserted that the man had been drugged by means of 
opium—probably had smoked himself into a stupor— 
and then strangled by violent compression of the 
windpipe. The discoloured skin of the throat showed 
the strength and persistence of the death-clutch. 
When the doctor made this statement, several of the 
jurymen glanced at Miss Danby’s hands still clasping 
her shoulders. These were ungloved, and assuredly 
looked sufficiently large and powerful to execute the 
deed hinted at by the witness. Finally the doctor 
declared that, in his opinion, the deceased had been 
murdered shortly after midnight of the day previous 
to the finding of the body. 

Jenny Walton was called upon to testify that Slanton 
had been a constant visitor at the cottage, and had as 
frequently quarrelled with his hostess. It was im¬ 
possible for her to state positively why the two were 
always at variance, but she had gathered from stray 
words, let drop by Miss Danby and Miss More, that 
the deceased had insisted upon marrying the first lady, 
in spite of her constant refusals to entertain the idea. 
Witness had heard no noise of any struggle on the night 
when the crime was committed, and knew nothing 
about the matter until Miss Aileen discovered the body 
in the wood. Yes! Miss Danby possessed several 
opium pipes, and was much given to smoking—so as 
to soothe away the pain of almost constant neuralgia, 
she said. Well, of course, Miss Danby disliked Dr. 
Slanton; any woman would dislike a man who refused 
to take “No” for an answer. Miss Danby never made 
any secret of her detestation of this persistent suitor. 
No! Witness could not truthfully say that she had 


;6 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


heard her mistress make use of any threats; but once— 
a week or so previous, Miss Danby had talked of going 
to America so as to be quit of Slanton. Jenny con¬ 
cluded her evidence by stating that she had retired 
to bed at nine o’clock leaving the women in the 
parlour. Up to that time no one had arrived, nor 
had she any reason to believe that the ladies expected 
a visitor. 

Then Aileen was summoned to the witness-stand, 
and her fair girlish beauty enhanced by her black dress 
made a great impression upon those present. However 
much Edith was blamed, not a single word was heard 
against Aileen. Rather was she commiserated by 
several women, as a “pore lamb” in the clutches of a 
bad lot. Hustings breathed more freely when he 
heard the encouraging sounds, as the placing of the 
girl in the same category as Edith might have led to 
her arrest, as an accomplice. He thanked his stars that 
both the crowd and Trant were favourably inclined; 
and listened to what Aileen had to say without any 
perturbation. 

The girl said as little as she well could say, and what 
she did say was all to the betterment of her friend, as 
a good and innocent woman. She set forth with crude 
eloquence, how her brother had died, how Edith had 
nursed him; how the two had been engaged, and how 
the young soldier had left his income to the woman he 
loved. Then followed an explanation as to how Edith 
had found the witness, in difficult circumstances after 
the disappearance of witness’s father, and how she 
had cherished her ever since. Miss Danby, admitted 
Aileen, disliked Dr. Slanton, who had tried to force her 
into marriage; but she had never desired his death, 
and had only suggested crossing the Atlantic in the 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 


77 


hope of escaping from his odious attentions. Witness 
had retired to bed at half-past nine, and had slept 
much too soundly to hear anything. “Any ordinary 
thing, that is,” she supplemented, quickly, “but I 
certainly should have been awakened by any unusual 
noise—shouting or struggling I mean. Then I should 
have come downstairs at once, to see what was the 
matter.” 

“Was Miss Danby her usual self at breakfast?” in¬ 
quired the Coroner, pointedly. 

“Oh, yes. Although”—with hesitation—“she had 
been smoking opium on the previous night, and was 
feeling the after-effects.” 

“Oh!” The Coroner pounced alertly on this admis¬ 
sion. “Then Miss Danby confessed to opium smok¬ 
ing?” 

“Why shouldn’t she confess?” demanded Aileen, 
tartly. “It—the smoking I mean—was her usual 
remedy to rid herself of neuralgia pains. Miss Danby 
was no different on that morning to any other morn¬ 
ing,” declared the girl, wilfully perjuring herself in 
the cause of friendship. “She had no reason to be 
otherwise.” 

“What?” The Coroner looked dubious. “With 
that body lying in the wood.” 

“She knew nothing of the body in the wood; nor 
did I, until I followed the cat and dog across the lawn!” 
and Aileen rapidly detailed the doings of Toby and 
Amelia, which had resulted in the shocking discovery. 

A juryman pointed to the lacquer-box on the table. 
“Do you know this ?” 

“No! I never set eyes on it until Mr. Trant opened 
the book-case, and it fell out. It doesn’t belong to 
Miss Danby. It never did, and I ought to know, as I 


78 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


have been in her house and in her confidence constantly 
for the last year. I have often been to the book-case 
to find something to read; but no box fell out when I 
opened the doors. Besides,” said the girl, forcibly, 
“Miss Danby never mentioned tattooing to me, which 
naturally she would have done had she bought that 
case of tattooing instruments. Someone must have 
hidden that box in the book-case to implicate Miss 
Danby,” ended Aileen, positively. 

“The assassin probably,” commented the Coroner 
with an ironical air. “But how could anyone have 
entered the cottage to hide the box, without the knowl¬ 
edge of yourself and Miss Danby?” 

“Very easily. I sleep up-stairs: Miss Danby in 
the room across the passage, so anyone could have 
climbed into the parlour through the window, by 
pushing back the snick, and lifting up the lower sash. 
And that was done,” ended Aileen, emphatically, “as 
Mr. Hustings will tell you.” 

This astonishing statement—and it was particularly 
astonishing to Trant—brought about the calling up of 
Hustings as a witness. He related what had been 
noted by himself and Miss More, when they examined 
the window, and challenged the Inspector to look into 
the matter for himself. “I shall certainly do so,” 
said Trant with a disbelieving shrug, “but I doubt if 
any examination will result in my gaining any clue.” 

“It will give you a clue,” retorted Hustings, de¬ 
liberately, “to the existence of the third person, who 
was hanging round the cottage when the murder took 
place. The evidence of the window proves that there 
is a third person.” 

“That is fancy rather than fact,” struck in the 
Coroner, impatiently. “However, if Inspector Trant 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 


79 


examines the window, and the clue you hint at is worth 
following up, followed up it shall be. Meanwhile 
have you any other witnesses to call, Mr. Inspector ?” 

‘‘No, sir. Unless Miss Danby?”—he looked mean¬ 
ingly at the woman. 

She rose automatically, throwing back her hood, and 
folding her cloak round her gaunt figure. “I am 
willing to answer any questions you may put, sir,” 
she said, quietly, “being innocent, I have nothing to 
conceal.” 

“Will it not be better to reserve your defence?” 
hinted the Coroner, doubtfully. 

“Have you already settled what your verdict will 
be, that you talk of my ‘defence’?” queried Miss 
Danby, scornfully. “I speak now or never!” and 
she glanced towards Aileen and her lover, both of 
whom nodded their approval. 

There was a surprised movement, and astonished 
murmur in the hall, when the accused woman faced 
the unfriendly crew with regal calmness. Most of 
those present truly believed her to be a murderess 
with her back to the wall fighting for a cause already 
lost. But the scornful expression on her fearless face, 
the accent of positive command she gave to her every 
word, and her plainly hinted assumption that she was 
sole mistress of the situation, impressed the majority 
with the belief that they were somewhat hasty in 
condemnation. Without the slightest display of emo¬ 
tion, never hesitating in her speech, never flinching 
at a revelation, the woman began to tell her tale. 
There was no interruption: only the dead silence of 
intent listening. 

“I met Dr. Slanton for the first time in France during 
the war, when I was acting as a nurse at the base,” 


8 o 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


said the chill, deliberate voice. “At the outset he paid 
no attention to me, as I was simply an underling, 
carrying out his instructions. Later, Lieutenant 
Roderick More, the brother of the young lady yonder, 
was brought in, badly wounded, and placed in my 
charge. I had been his father’s secretary during 
pre-war times, and we had been engaged. Owing to 
the disapproval of Roderick’s father, the engagement 
was broken off, and I did not meet my lover again until 
he came to the hospital. For we were lovers—we 
two: he loved me as much as I loved him, so a renewed 
association ended in a renewed engagement. Fearing 
lest he might die, for his wound was deadly, Roderick 
made a will in my favour leaving me two thousand a 
year. It was witnessed by Dr. Slanton and by Alfred 
Rackman, who was my lover’s batman. After the 
signing of the will Slanton began to pay me attentions 
which I discouraged, saying that I loved Roderick and 
him only. Then”—the speaker’s voice trailed away 
into a faltering murmur, and for the first time she 
displayed emotion. 

“Then Roderick—died,” she began again after a 
pause, and with an obvious effort; “he was buried in 
France, and later I returned to England to surrender 
the money to Mr. More, senior, as I did not wish him 
to think that my love for his dead son was mercenary. 
I found that Mr. More had disappeared, having gone 
to France only—as was reported—to be captured 
by the Germans. Failing to find him, I searched for 
his daughter, Aileen, who, I found, had left school to 
work in a stockbroker’s office. Her father had left 
ample funds for her maintenance, during his absence, 
but the guardian in charge of these had fled to South 
America with the money. I asked Aileen to take what 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 


81 


Roderick had left me by will but she refused to do 
this and would only consent to live with me as my 
companion. We came to Fryfeld, and then—then— 
Slanton re-entered my life!” Here, once more, the 
speaker became emotional, as her hands clenched 
themselves and her face became fierce with scarcely 
smothered anger. 

Again, recovering her self-control, she proceeded 
swiftly: “The war being over Dr. Slanton was em¬ 
ployed as a. house-surgeon in the Plantagenet Hos¬ 
pital, down Chelsea way. He learned—I know not 
how—that I lived here, and thrust himself upon me, 
insisting that I should marry him. I refused, but he 
would not accept my refusal, and for some months 
persecuted me with his hateful attentions, as Aileen 
can testify. Small wonder,” went on Miss Danby 
bitterly, “that I took to smoking opium again. It 
was Slanton who advised me to soothe my neuralgic 
pains in that way: advised me, when we were in 
France. I am a wreck because of him. He lured me 
to tamper with the drug, and his persecutions so tor¬ 
mented me that I indulged in it to calm my brain!” 
She breathed hard, when confessing this weakness, 
frowned darkly, and struggled to control her feel¬ 
ings. 

Three minutes later. “That is all,” said Edith, 
wearily. “I saw Slanton some two weeks ago for the 
last time. As usual, he proposed marriage and, as 
usual, I refused to entertain the idea. On the morning 
when his body was found in the wood, I mentioned 
to Aileen that I would probably go to America to 
escape his attentions. That, alone, should show you 
how ignorant I was of his death.” 

“Or show,” remarked the Coroner, meaningly, 


82 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“that having rid yourself of the man, you hoped to 
escape the penalty of your crime. ,, 

Miss Danby made a gesture of despair, and sat down, 
again folding her cloak, shaken loose during her speech, 
round her gaunt body. “Let it be as you say/’ she 
retorted, contemptuously. “I know nothing more 
about the matter. By your faces I can see that you 
have already condemned me.” 

“If you can make no better defence-?” 

“What other defence can I make, save by telling 
you the story of my life?” she demanded, fiercely. 
“There is no evidence I can bring forward to prove 
my innocence. Yet innocent I truly am”—and again 
she drew herself up imperially. “Yes—I am wholly 
innocent. I never saw the man on that night—I 
never knew that his body lay in the wood, much less 
that he was dead. Yonder box of tattooing instru¬ 
ments is not my property; I could not have used them 
had they been my property. And ‘Cain’! Why 
should I have branded him as ‘Cain’? Such a name 
was too good for such a beast, as he proved himself to 
be. ‘Devil’ would have been my choice, and flattering 
at that. But I did nothing—I know nothing—I can 
explain nothing. Judge me—condemn me—hang me, 
if you will. I say no more, since there is nothing to 
say.” 

Wrapping herself in the grey cloak, wrapping 
herself also in impenetrable silence, she resumed her 
passive attitude, looking as grim and aloof as the 
Sphinx. And like the Sphinx, she dumbly proposed 
a riddle, which none present could guess. That 
they did attempt to do so, did not prove that their 
guess was correct. “Willful Murder!” was the guess— 
the verdict. And the guess was made and the verdict 


WHAT THE LAW SAID 


83 


was given without the slightest hesitation on the part 
of the jury. “Oh, Edith! Edith!” wailed Aileen, 
when the fatal words fell from the lips of the foreman. 

But Edith said nothing—she did not even look at her 
friend, who was suffering as much, if not more than, 
her own wretched self. Without a word she submitted 
to be led away by Trant, and took her seat in the wait¬ 
ing motor-car as an acknowledged murderess. Aileen 
did not see that sinister departure for a prison cell. 
She had fainted in the strong arms of her lover. 


CHAPTER VII 


WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 

“What is your opinion of this case, as it now stands?” 

Hustings put this question to Trant very bluntly, 
and waited somewhat impatiently for an answer. The 
Inspector withheld the same for three or four minutes, 
as he was not quite certain what to say. The two men 
were seated in the detective’s private room in the Tar- 
haven police-station, discussing the doings of the 
previous day, which had caused so great a sensation 
at Fryfeld. Ten minutes earlier, Dick had arrived, 
asking for an interview, which was readily accorded 
by the officer. The latter wished to work along with 
the former, as the case in hand perplexed him greatly. 
It was this very perplexity which delayed his reply, 
and he turned the matter over carefully in his mind 
before speaking. “Well, Mr. Hustings!” he said at 
length, “if you had asked me that prior to the inquest 
proceedings, I should have been better able to answer 
plainly. Now,”—Trant shook his head and rubbed 
his chin with a worried air. 

Hustings nodded, comprehendingly. “You have 
examined the window?” 

“This morning!” responded Trant, nodding also. 
“I agree with you that the snick was pushed back with 
a knife-blade inserted between the upper and lower 
sash. And lately, for the planed surface, where the 
84 


WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


85 


sliver was sliced off, is perfectly fresh. There is no 
doubt in my mind but that the window has been 
forced.” 

“And that means the intrusion of a third person 
into this matter!” declared Dick, trimphantly. 

“It certainly looks like it. Nevertheless, Miss 
Danby’s character is not cleared by such intrusion.’’ 

“To some degree, I think it is, Trant. That third 
person can only have broken into the cottage for the 
purpose of hiding the lacquer-box in the book-case. 
If Miss Danby was an accomplice of the intruder, that 
unknown individual would scarcely have left behind 
such dangerous evidence.” 

“He—let us assume, for the moment, that this un¬ 
known person is a man,” said the Inspector, argumen¬ 
tatively, “he may have wished to get rid of the woman, 
and so left behind him sufficient evidence to implicate 
her thoroughly.” 

“I don’t think so: I can’t think so. It would be 
too much risk for him to take, for how could he be sure 
that she would keep silent in the face of his betraying 
her to her death.” 

“All the same, she is silent.” 

“Granted! But with the silence of ignorance. If 
she knew the name and the whereabouts of the man 
who hid the box, it is only natural to suppose that she 
would give him up to save her life.” 

“She may do so yet.” 

“I think not. Her confession, made at the inquest, 
convinces me that she knows nothing about the box, 
nor how it came to be in the book-case. Consider, 
Trant—would there have been any need for the forcing 
of the window, by a man who could have been admitted 
into the parlour by Miss Danby herself? No! No! 


86 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Believe me, this is a conspiracy to implicate the poor 
creature in a necessary murder.” 

“A necessary murder,” echoed Trant, raising his 
eyebrows. 

“I speak advisedly,” said Hustings with deliberate 
firmness, “a necessary murder. Someone—the man 
who forced the window, maybe—had a strong reason 
for putting away Slanton. Knowing of Miss Danby’s 
stormy relations with the doctor and the doctor’s 
frequent visits, this man implicated her by means of 
the lacquer-box and the tattooing, so as to ward off 
suspicion from himself. Yes, and perhaps to get rid 
of her also.” 

“But, if she has any such enemy,” said Trant, im¬ 
patiently, “she would speak out.” 

“As I am to interview her to-day—you said earlier 
that I could do so—I hope to make her speak out.” 

Trant shook his head. “She is a mule for ob¬ 
stinacy.” 

“I intend to appeal to her love for Miss More. Tell 
her that the girl is in danger of being arrested as an 
accessory-after-the-fact.” 

“Yes!” the Inspector nodded approvingly, “a hint 
of that kind might lead to the breaking down of the 
reserve—especially as it is true.” 

“True!” Dick sprang from his chair, furiously. 
“You don’t mean to say that you doubt Aileen—you, 
who owe so much to her father?” 

“Oh, she told you that, did she?” queried Trant, 
coolly. “Well all the better, as you can judge how 
loathe I would be to proceed to such an extreme. 
Nevertheless, if I were other than I am, Aileen would 
be arrested. It seems inconceivable that all this should 


WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


87 

have taken place in a tiny cottage without her know¬ 
ing something, hearing something, seeing something.” 

“She couldn’t hear because she was sound asleep 
when the crime was committed, and she couldn’t see 
as she was in bed upstairs, and she can’t know any¬ 
thing or she would speak out, if only to save her 
friend.” 

“Perhaps her speaking out would condemn her 
friend,” observed Trant cynically. “Don’t grow angry 
Mr. Hustings, Aileen is as dear to me as to you.” 

“How do you know that she is dear to me?” asked 
Dick, flushing redly. 

“Village gossip, your expression when you look 
at her, her expression when she looks at you. It’s 
my business to read faces. Anyhow,” Trant rose 
briskly, “it is just as well that she has a friend in you 
as well as in me, for her position is both difficult and 
dangerous.” 

“She is as innocent as—as—Miss Danby,” retorted 
the young man, angrily, “and in some way I’ll get 
them both out of the difficult and dangerous position.” 

“Good luck to you!” Trant grasped Dick’s hand 
and shook it heartily. “I am as keen in this matter 
as you are. Keep me advised of what you discover— 
of what you hear from Miss Danby, and then we can 
consider what is best to be done.” 

Dick nodded, made for the door and turned back. 
“There is one thing I wish to tell you,” he said, slowly, 
“did Slanton’s neck-tie have a scarf-pin in it, shaped 
like a swastika?” 

“What on earth is a swastika?” asked the Inspec¬ 
tor, openly puzzled. 

Hustings scribbled the symbol on the blotting- 


88 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


paper with his pencil. “That is an occult sign. 
Hindoo mysticism: Yogi business. Slanton, as I 
learned from Aileen, meddled with such dangerous 
things. The swastika scarf-pin was set with rough 
turquoise stones.” 

Trant ran over in his mind the number and nature 
of the articles found on the dead man, and shook his 
head. “I saw no scarf-pin whatsoever; much less 
one of that kind. Its oddity would have fixed it in 
my memory had I seen it.” 

“Yet Slanton declared to Aileen that he always wore 
that scarf-pin, so as to bring him luck. He must have 
worn it when he was murdered. Why is it missing 
from the body? I wonder,” said the young man, 
suddenly, “if there is any occult devilment behind all 
this. Slanton was a spiritualist, and from this swas¬ 
tika, it would seem that he concerned himself with 
eastern mysteries. Did the man who branded him— 
who killed him—who forced the window—who hid 
the lacquer-box in the book-case, steal that pin?” 

“You propose riddles?” said Trant, shrugging. 

“Riddles which I mean to solve.” 

“How are you going to begin?” 

“That depends upon what I hear from Miss Danby.” 
Dick turned towards the door again, and again turned 
back. “When will she be brought before the magis¬ 
trate ?” 

“In eight days.” 

“It’s a short time in which to work wonders. But 
I am so sure of Miss Danby’s innocence that a miracle 
may happen.” 

“Let us hope so. Meanwhile, as things are, you 
must interview your client and see if in any way she 
can help you to perform the miracle.” 


WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 89 

“And meanwhile,” repeated Dick, opening the door, 
“you won’t take any action against Aileen?” 

“No! From old associations connected with her 
father I look upon her as my daughter. It is my duty 
to have her watched as a necessary witness, since she 
is involved, unconsciously it is true, in this matter. 
But she can remain in the cottage unmolested in every 
way. And I take it,” went on Trant, fixing a piercing 
gaze on his visitor, “that you will be frank with me— 
that all you learn will be confided to me?” 

“Of course. I am as anxious to work with you, as 
you are to work with me, since two heads are better 
than one. Between us, we shall win to the root of this 
trouble, hard though it seems to dig downward to that 
root.” 

“The ever-hopeful assurance of youth,” sighed 
Trant, smiling approvingly, and returned to his desk, 
as the door closed on Hustings. He was by no means 
so sure of success as the young man, but, unwilling to 
damp his ardour, refrained from saying so. 

Fifteen minutes later Dick was in Miss Danby’s cell, 
explaining his reason for seeking an interview. The 
Inspector had arranged for strict privacy, knowing 
full well that if Hustings was dexterous enough to 
extract any kind of confession, the woman would not 
make it if a third person was present. Also he had the 
assurance that the same would be made known to him 
in due course. “So, as your solicitor,” said Dick, 
telling all this to Edith, “I wish you to say to me in 
private, what you refused to say in public.” 

“I have nothing to add to what I said yesterday,” 
replied the woman, who was seated on her bed, wrapped 
up, as usual, in the grey cloak. 

“But consider, Miss Danby,” urged the visitor, 


9° 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


earnestly, “in eight days you will be brought up before 
the magistrate, and if you fail to make a defence, you 
will be sent up for trial at the Assizes.” 

“What will be, will be.” 

“But consider,” he urged again, “your reputation, 
your position-?” 

Miss Danby threw back her head and laughed ter¬ 
ribly. “My reputation—my position!” she sneered 
with quivering lips, pale and dry. “What are those to 
one already condemned to death.” 

“You are not condemned yet; you will not be, if—” 

“Yes—‘if’!” she interrupted, swiftly; “Much virtue 
in ‘if,’ as Touchstone says. But there is no virtue in 
yours, Mr. Hustings. I am condemned, already, and 
by a higher tribunal than any on earth.” 

“What do you mean?” Dick was at once puzzled 
and startled. 

“I mean—Cancer,” said Edith, pronouncing the 
sinister word callously. “No one knows—not even 
Aileen—that I suffer from cancer, that I have not 
long to live. For that reason I took to opium-smoking. 
I called it neuralgia,”—she laughed scornfully, “but 
now you know the truth.” 

Hustings surveyed her with profound pity. He was 
no physician, but even his untrained eye could see the 
hints of approaching dissolution. The livid, sagging 
skin, the dull eyes, the dreadful leanness of the figure, 
and the air of utter exhaustion, pervading her being. 
“I wish I could do something to help,” he cried 
impetuously; for it seemed terrible to him that such a 
once splendidly handsome woman should decay into 
what he saw before him. 

“You are doing as much as you can do,” said 
Miss Danby, wearily, and huddled herself on the bed, 



WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


9 1 


like a crooked old witch, then added with a dreary- 
smile: “But there is one thing helpful to me at the 
moment.” 

“Yes. Anything I can do-” 

“Marry Aileen. She is dearer to me than anything 
on earth; dearer than ever now, since she is standing 
by me in these straits. My position matters little to 
me. I shall probably be dead before it comes to my 
hanging: for hanged I must be on the evidence I 
heard yesterday. But I wish to see Aileen safe in 
your arms before I go. I know that you love her.” 

“I do—I do—with all my heart and soul.” 

“Does she love you?” 

“I think so—I am almost sure; yes, I am certain 
she does. Otherwise her promise that she would 
allow me to talk to her of what is in my heart, after 
you are saved, would mean nothing.” 

“It depends upon my salvation then?” queried 
Edith shrugging, hopelessly. 

“More or less. But you can set your mind at rest, 
Miss Danby. Come good, come bad, sooner or later, 
I hope to make Aileen my wife.” 

“Thank Heaven for that,” murmured the woman, 
gratefully, “and she will not go to you penniless. 
No! I have made a will, leaving her the money which 
her brother left to me. It is rightfully hers, and when 
I am gone she need have no scruples in taking back 
her own, even though she may believe me to be a 
murderess.” 

“Aileen does not believe that,” said Dick, sturdily, 
“nor do I.” 

Miss Danby looked at him rather cynically, “Strange 
that you should say that, seeing how strong the evi¬ 
dence is against my being innocent.” 



9 2 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“There may be even stronger evidence found, likely 
to be in your favour.” 

“Where are you going to look for that saving 
evidence ?” 

“In the direction you indicate,” said Hustings 
promptly. 

Edith laughed drearily. “How often am I to tell 
you that I can give no help?” 

“As often as you like, as I refuse to take such an 
answer. Before I leave you I am sure you will give 
me some clue to the truth.” 

She shook her head. “I know of no clue. The 

death of Slanton is a mystery to me, as to you and 

to all.” 

“But think—think—and consider before you refuse 
to help me. Aileen!” 

“What about her?” Miss Danby looked up alertly. 

“She is in the position of being arrested as an 
accessory-after-the-fact.” 

The woman sprang to her feet, and straightened her 
gaunt figure. “You dare not tell me that!” she ex¬ 
claimed threateningly. 

“I do tell you. The sole reason why she has not 

yet been arrested is that the Inspector is her father’s 

old friend who knew Aileen when she was a child. 
He is allowing her all possible freedom just now, 
and while the case remains in his hands he will keep her 
name out of it, so far as is consistent with his duty. 
But suppose,” Hustings bent forward to whisper the 
next sentence, “suppose, Miss Danby, the Scotland 
Yard authorities intervene?” 

“They dare not arrest Aileen,” gasped Edith, 
passionately, “she knows nothing.” 

“So she says; so you say,” said Dick with studied 


WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


93 


emphasis, as it was necessary to arouse her fears for 
the girl’s safety to the uttermost, “but consider the 
position. Two women living in a lonely cottage, 
both hating a man who has been murdered on their 
door-step, as one might say. It is only reasonable for 
an outsider to credit both with guilt.” 

“Why not credit three women with guilt/’ she 
taunted, contemptuously, “there is Jenny Walton, who 
was sent from London by that beast Slanton to be 
my servant and spy upon me.” 

“That is news to me, and will be news to Trant,” 
said Dick, startled by the information. “What does 
Jenny know about this man?” 

“I don’t know—I never asked her. I was obliged 
to take her when Slanton requested me to do so, 
otherwise”—she stopped and pursed up her mouth. 

“Otherwise-?” 

“That is my secret. I can tell you nothing.” 

“If you don’t, then Aileen is in danger,” warned 
Hustings, significantly. 

“The revelation of my secret would not save her: 
I only wish it could save her,” cried the wretched 
woman, wringing her hands, “but my secret, which 
concerns only myself and Slanton, has nothing to do 
with his death. Why he was killed and who killed 
him, I know no more than you do. Ask Jenny for 
information about Slanton’s past life. She may be 
able to shed some light on the subject.” 

“I shall certainly question Jenny, and so will Trant,” 
remarked the young man, deliberately, and rising, as 
if about to retire, “I am sorry you can’t help Aileen. 
The Inspector will ward off all danger from her while 
he can but if in the end he is forced to have her 
arrested-” 




94 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Miss Danby sprang forward and clutched him by 
the sleeve. “She must not be arrested. She knows 
nothing, I tell you. Wait! Wait! Let me think,” 
and she went back to sit on the bed with clasped hands 
and a frowning face. 

Hustings held his peace, as he guessed that she was 
making up her mind whether to speak out or to keep 
silent. The woman twisted her body under the stress 
of some strong emotion: then, unable to control her¬ 
self, rose impetuously to walk rapidly up and down the 
narrow limits of the cell. With her fierce lean face and 
gaunt body, and profuse grey hair now flying loose, 
she reminded Dick of a trapped wolf. “If I could 
only give you a clue,” she cried despairingly, “but I 
can’t—I can’t.” 

“Let me be the judge of that,” suggested the 
lawyer, “tell me the truth.” 

“I have told it—at the inquest.” 

“Not all. I wish to know exactly what took place 
on that night. I believe that you went to bed at ten 
o-’clock, that you smoked opium. Butt” added Dick, 
emphatically, “I believe also that you know about the 
death. Else why did you warn Aileen not to go into 
the wood, when she ran after the animals?” 

Edith flung her body backwards, threw out her arms, 
and looked upward, as if to seek information. Then— 
“How do I know but what you will use any confidence 
I may give you against me ?” 

“As your solicitor I am bound to help, not to 
hinder. Of course, if you are about to confess that 
you are guilty-” 

“I don’t confess that,” she interrupted vehemently, 
“not for one instant. But, as you say that you are my 
friend and promise .to marry Aileen, I confess one 



WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


95 


thing. Whether it will help to save her or not, I 
can’t say.” She returned to the bed, and again 
huddled herself up against the pillow, sullenly afraid. 
Yes. And so patently afraid that Dick had to urge 
her to speak. 

“What is the one thing you speak of, Miss Danby?” 

With an effort she blurted out the truth, “I did see 
Slanton on that night.” 

“Yes! Goon.” 

“He was—was—alive.” 

Hustings recoiled in horror, “Then you did kill-” 

“No! No! No! I swear that I did not: never 
suggest such a thing. Listen. I shall tell you all I 
can, for Aileen’s sake,” and, flinging back her loose 
grey tresses she poured out a torrent of rapid speech: 
“I did go to bed at ten o’clock as I said. But I did 
not smoke my pipe immediately. For hours I lay 
awake, thinking of my foolish, reckless past-” 

“Which you refuse to tell me,” interjected Dick, 
reproachfully. 

“Because it has nothing to do with the present,” 
retorted Miss Danby savagely. “Be quiet, you fool, or 
you will learn nothing. I lay awake I tell you, for 
hours—for years—for centuries, in that hell of my 
own making. Then, towards the morning, I fancied 
I heard some noise outside: footsteps on the gravel of 
the path. I waited, thinking that I was mistaken— 
I can’t tell you for how long. Then again I heard the 
noise of footsteps on the gravel, and this time was so 
sure that I got out of bed, put on my dressing-gown 
and slippers, and went across the passage into the 
parlour.” 

“Why didn’t you look out of your bedroom 
window ?” 




96 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Because the noise seemed to be towards the other 
side of the house. I lighted a candle, and entered the 
parlour, but everything seemed to be as it was before 
I went to bed at ten o’clock.” 

“Was the window down?” 

“Yes.” 

“You heard the noise of footsteps you say. Did you 
also hear the noise of the window being pushed up and 
pulled down?” 

“No! I only heard the footsteps: heard them 
twice, the second time so clearly that I got up to 
investigate, as I told you. Then, seeing, as I thought, 
that everything was safe in the parlour, I opened the 
front door to peer out.” 

“Did you take the lighted candle with you?” asked 
Dick, profoundly interested. 

Miss Danby nodded, impatiently, and hurried her 
speech. “But there was no need, as the moon had 
risen. The sky was covered with grey clouds, but 
sufficient light filtered through to let me see a dark 
body lying on. the lawn.” 

“At the moment did you think that it was the body 
of Dr. Slanton?” 

“As Heaven is my judge I did not,” asseverated 
Edith solemnly, “he was not in my thoughts at the 
moment. Indeed I had no thoughts, being so dis¬ 
traught and weak. But when I bent down, holding 
the candle to see who it was,”—here her voice cracked 
shrilly—“I realized that Slanton was lying there.” 

“And alive!” 

“I did not think so at the moment. I believed 
that he was dead, as he did not move, did not even 
seem to breathe. And—and,”—she caught her breath, 
faint with the recollection:—“and his forehead: oh, 


WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


97 


that was a terrible sight, all mangled and swollen. I 
knelt by the body, panic-stricken, appalled by the 
horror of the discovery. I wonder—wonder that I 
did not—not lose my—my reason!” and, covering her 
face with her hands, she rocked to and fro, groaning. 

“Why did you not give the alarm immediately. 
Call up Aileen and Jenny to send for help to the 
village?” 

Edith lowered her hands and looked at him wonder- 
ingly. “You ask that when you know how I hated the 
man—how I longed to get rid of him and his hateful 
attentions? You fool, why should I have signed my 
death-warrant?” She got on to her feet, gesticulating 
and speaking rapidly. “I saw my danger in a flash, 
should I be caught, as it were, red-handed, and there¬ 
fore dragged the body towards the wood. I wanted to 
hide it—to bury it—to do anything, so long as I could 
put away this evidence of my having committed a 
crime, which”—she drew herself up indignantly— 
“I did not commit.” 

“I see your dilemma,” admitted Hustings, sensibly. 
“Well?” 

“Well?” she echoed, angrily, “what else can I tell 
you?” 

“What you did next.” 

Edith passed a thin hand wearily across her forehead 
and did her best to recall the doings of that nightmare 
moment. “I tried to think how this dreadful thing 
had come to pass. I dragged the body in a frenzy 
across the lawn, anxious only to hide it. When I got 
it into the wood, to where Aileen found it next morn¬ 
ing, I knelt down beside it again, hoping against hope 
that Slanton was not dead—that he had only fainted. 
I fancied that the twice-heard steps had been his, and 


98 THE WHISPERING LANE 

that he had fainted when stepping on to the lawn.” 

“Didn’t you notice the marks on his throat and guess 
that he had been strangled?” questioned Dick, believ¬ 
ing all she had confessed so far. 

“No! How could I in the dim moonlight, for the 
candle had gone out when I dropped it on the lawn at 
the horror of the discovery. I only noticed the 
swollen forehead, and wondered why it was swollen— 
the idea of tattooing never occurred to me. And hop¬ 
ing, as I say, that he might be alive, I shook him again 
and again. And”—her voice leaped an octave—“he 
was alive, opening his eyes to look up straightly into 
my face bending over him. And then—then—I—I 
ran away.” 

“You—ran—away?” Hustings looked amazed, 
“But why, when, having revived, the man might have 
explained the whole business?” 

“I was—frightened,” said the woman with a terri¬ 
fied glance round the cell, “yes—frightened out of 
what remaining wits I had. Just when he opened his 
eyes and—spoke-” 

“Spoke!” Dick was all ears and eyes, “did he really 
speak?” 

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t interrupt. I can’t re¬ 
member everything at once,” she said peevishly. 
“Just when he spoke I thought that I heard cautious 
footsteps on the high road beyond the wall. I might 
have been mistaken—I don’t know—for in my then 
disturbed state of mind, I might have seen anything 
—heard anything—believed anything. Think, Mr. 
Hustings!” Edith gripped her listener by the arm, 
shaking from head to foot with sheer terror, “There 
was I, alone with my enemy in that dark wood: alone 
in the night with that dying beast. The night has a 



WHAT THE WOMAN SAID 


99 


thousand eyes they say, and those eyes were all look¬ 
ing at me. I had no chance—I was spied upon—I 
was trapped. Oh, my God, how could you expect me 
to wait!” she dropped his arm and clutched her head 
frantically. “I couldn’t stay—I doubt if you could 
have stayed. I was crazy with fear, and tore back to 
the house, to drug myself into a stupor with opium. 
No! No!” she thrust out her hands to silence the 
eager questions on Hustings’s tongue, and shrank 
against the wall, against which the bed was placed. “I 
can say no more. Go! Go!” 

“Just one thing,” implored Dick hurriedly, “what 
did Slanton say?” 

“Only one word.” 

“And that word?” 

“Whispering!” 

“Whispering! What does-?” then, because 

Edith had exhausted her strength and was moaning, 
face downward on the pillow, he refrained from press¬ 
ing the question. “Be calm and hopeful,” he said, 
touching her bowed head. “I believe in your inno¬ 
cence and will prove your innocence.” 

She only moaned and trembled, so Dick moved 
hurriedly out of the cell, having given what sympathy 
and assurance he could to the unhappy creature. 
But he frowned thoughtfully when he found himself in 
the street. “Whispering” he muttered, “now what 
does ‘whispering’ mean?” 



CHAPTER VIII 


THE DARK PATH 

“Whispering! Whispering! Whispering.” Again 
and again and yet again, Hustings repeated that 
mysterious word, as he drove his car back to Fryfeld 
at top-speed. It sang insistently in his brain, like the 
catchy jingle of some popular tune, confusing his mind 
with its maddening reiteration. Somehow it declared 
itself to be of the utmost importance, but in what way 
he could not imagine. Slanton—as would appear from 
Miss Danby’s wild tale—had revived sufficiently to 
breathe out that one word, before she fled panic-stricken 
to the safety of the cottage. The Fool-woman! 
Better have remained to learn the truth, for there was 
no reason to suppose that the man had relapsed into 
insensibility the moment after he had regained his 
speech. But the golden moment had come and gone. 
The man was dead: the secret was untold. 

Yes! The man was dead, but who had killed him? 
Edith swore that she had left him alive: in a dying 
condition certainly, but sufficiently himself to speak. 
Therefore, if her story was true—and Dick believed 
that it was true—some one had found the man, had 
murdered the man. He had been drugged, but not 
unto death, for the marks on his throat explained 
loudly how he had come by his end. Yes! Slan¬ 
ton had undoubtedly been strangled. But who had 
strangled him and why? Edith’s flight was due to 

IOO 


THE DARK PATH 


IOI 


her hearing cautious footsteps on the high road beyond 
the wall, and those footsteps might have been—must 
have been, those of the assassin. It would have been 
perfectly easy for him to climb over the wall and ex¬ 
ecute his purpose; regaining the road in a few minutes 
to effect his escape. But how had he fled: on foot, 
or in some vehicle? And whither had he fled: north, 
south, east or west? Here was another series of per¬ 
plexing questions which could not be answered. Not 
that Dick tried to do so, for the mystery of the word 
“Whispering!” dominated his mind. And try as he 
would to rid himself of the senseless jingle, he utterly 
failed to do so. Something—someone, kept telling 
him, voicelessly, that here was the key to open the Blue 
Beard’s Chamber of dreadful secrecy. But where was 
the keyhole into which that key could be thrust? His 
voiceless adviser gave him no hint of that. 

Dick’s long day in Tarhaven, with the weight of two 
important interviews on his mind, and now the worry 
of a mysterious word which refused to explain itself, 
left him, mentally, a complete wreck. But recollected 
war-experiences, suggesting how very valuable well- 
considered slumber was to restore the balance of the 
brain, sent him immediately to his bedroom. Here he 
laid himself down and fell into a sound sleep. Con¬ 
sidering the troubled state of things and the importance 
of the case creating that state, it was wonderful that 
he could settle himself so calmly to rest. But this he 
did, and successfully, for Nature, a generous lender but 
a hard creditor, demanded her dues, and got them. 

For three necessary hours the young man slept 
placidly, to awaken, like a giant refreshed, when dusk 
was falling. A cold bath and a change of clothes im¬ 
proved his mood still more, while an excellent dinner 


102 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


completed the cure. Assuring himself that a calm 
mind was necessary for him to solve the riddle he had 
set—or rather that Fate had set—Dick sat down in 
his library and loaded his pipe. Then, wreathed in 
fragrant tobacco smoke, he judicially sorted out his 
newly-gained knowledge, with the idea of seeking 
Aileen later, so as to advise her as to the present as¬ 
pect of things. Involved in this somewhat arid medi¬ 
tation, he delayed his contemplated visit too long, and 
only realized his fault when he beheld Aileen standing 
at the door. 

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” said the girl, coming 
forward, hurriedly, “so I came over with Jenny. Oh, 
Dick, how could you keep me in suspense?” 

Hustings jumped up, full of apologies, thinking how 
charming she looked in the filmy black frock, which so 
vividly enhanced her fair loveliness. “I intended to go 
over to your cottage, as soon as I sorted out things,” 
he said, placing an arm-chair nearer to the fire for her 
convenience. 

“What things ?” Aileen threw the woolly blue cloak 
she carried over the back of the chair, and sat down 
with a shiver to warm her hands. 

“Those which I heard from Trant—from Miss 
Danby” 

“And-?” she looked an anxious question. 

“And which I shall explain later,” he replied 
smoothly, “just now you require coffee and a liqueur.” 

“The first, not the second, please. But tell me-?” 

“No! No! We must approach matters in hand 
calmly and in our right senses,” he crossed the room to 
touch the button of the bell. “I don’t want you to 
faint, as you did after the inquest.” 

“The verdict gave me a shock: took me unpre- 




THE DARK PATH 


103 


pared. But,” added the girl firmly, “the time for 
such weakness is past. You can rely upon me to-” 

Her speech was interrupted by the entrance of the 
butler, to whom Dick gave an order for the immediate 
bringing of coffee. “And see that it is hot and strong 
and black,” ordered Dick, sharply. 

“I like milk in my coffee,” protested Aileen, through 
sheer feminine resentment to masculine authority. 

Dick shook his sleek head masterfully. “Better 
have the pure juice of the berry to buck you up. 
Now don’t talk for the moment. I’m thinking!” and 
thrusting his hands into the pockets of his dinner- 
jacket, he wheeled to face the fire and stare silently 
into the burning coals. 

The girl bit her lip, tapped her foot on the floor, 
and showed her displeasure very plainly. But as Dick 
took no notice of this indignant display, she leaned 
back in the deep chair to examine the room. It was 
an attractive sanctum for a scholar, with its air of lux¬ 
ury, its atmosphere of peace. Three walls were built up 
from floor to ceiling with numberless volumes, ranged 
shelf after shelf in carved book-cases of black oak, 
sombrely splendid. Piercing the fourth wall, two 
tall, narrow windows and an equally tall, narrow door, 
set midway between them, gave upon a broad terrace, 
whence shallow steps descended to spreading lawns of 
velvety emerald turf. The carpet and draperies of 
the library were darkly red, and over the fireplace 
hung the portrait of Dick’s cavalier ancestor, who had 
fought at Naseby. The effect of the whole was rich 
but gloomy: the atmosphere suggestively monastic. 

It was a strictly masculine apartment, without flow¬ 
ers, ornaments, cushions, or feminine trifles of any 
kind, and in consequence, looked—to Aileen’s eyes at 



104 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


least—somewhat bleak. A woman’s hand, a woman’s 
presence, she thought, would improve its grim sobriety 
into something more genially cosy. And thinking thus, 
she blushed, knowing full well that she could be the 
woman if she so chose. The rosy betrayal of the fancy 
coloured her face vividly, and somewhat awkwardly, 
since Dick turned to address her at that very mo¬ 
ment. “What’s the matter now?” he asked, with 
characteristic bluntness. 

“Nothing!” the girl, naturally, was confused, “only 
this room—delightful!” 

“It would be more delightful, Aileen, if you were 
always here.” 

His speech so exactly worded her thoughts that she 
blushed still more, looking down nervously so as not 
to meet his imperious gaze. “You promised not to 
talk like that until Edith was safe.” 

“I daresay,” returned the young man dryly, “but 
I am flesh and blood you know, and a league-end woo¬ 
ing is not to my liking.” 

Before Aileen could answer this very direct speech 
the conversation was again interrupted by the coming 
of the butler. His master directed him to place the 
tray with its coffee and liqueurs on the writing-table, 
and “Tell Miss More’s maid to come here in 
half an hour,” said Dick, handling the cups and 
saucers as the man retired, closing the door after 
him. 

“What do you want with Jenny?” demanded 
Aileen when they were alone. 

“I want a little information from Jenny. Here is 
your coffee: drink it while it is hot.” 

The girl accepted the cup, and sipped the aromatic 
contents enjoyably. “And this information?” 


THE DARK PATH 


105 


Hustings filled a liqueur-glass and sat himself down 
in the arm-chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. 
“I saw Miss Danby to-day,” he remarked. 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“It is the beginning of the answer. Miss Danby 
tells me that Slanton induced her to take Jenny Walton 
into her service.” 

The cup and its saucer rattled in Aileen’s hand. 
“Edith never told me that.” 

“I gather that Edith never told you many things,” 
said Dick, shrugging. “You see, she was decent 
enough to keep you out of her mud as much as she 
could.” 

“I won’t listen to your talking of my best friend in 
that way,” cried Aileen impetuously, and her eyes grew 
angry. 

“I think you said that before, and yet had to listen. 
Don’t stumble over pebbles, you spitfire. This is 
serious.” 

“And so am I.” She handed him her empty cup, 
made a gesture of refusal when he indicated a liqueur- 
glass, and folded her hands on her lap. “Only don’t 
call me names.” 

“You are a trial, Aileen,” observed Hustings, 
calmly, “I’d like to shake you.” 

“You did shake me,” she retorted, resentfully. 

“For your good: for your good, my child. But 
Jenny—what do you know about her?” 

“Only that she came from London six months ago. 
Edith told me that she was engaged from a Registry- 
office.” 

“The Registry-office being Slanton, who sent her to 
spy on Miss Danby.” 

“Why?” 


io6 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“I can’t tell you, because Miss Danbv wouldn’t tell 
me. What is the link between her and Slanton I 
don’t know; but it must be a deadly link, a strong link 
to bind so capable a woman as your friend to such 
an out-and-out scamp as Slanton seems to have been. 
However, Miss Danby talks of the thing as her secret, 
so I am as much in the dark as you are. But the point 
is this: in Slanton’s past, lies the cause of his death. 
Jenny may know something of that past and may be 
able to reveal things.” 

“She won’t if she is in Slanton’s power.” 

“You forget that the man is dead. His power, if 
he possessed any over the girl, is therefore gone. But 
the best thing to do just now,” said Dick, settling 
himself in his chair, “is to report my doings of this 
afternoon,” and he forthwith detailed what Trant had 
said: what Edith had confessed. 

Aileen heard him to the end without interrupting, 
and her face was shining with pleasure when he con¬ 
cluded. “So you see that Edith is innocent,” she cried 
triumphantly. 

“I believe she is innocent. Yet—yet—there is al¬ 
ways the doubt.” 

“What doubt?” demanded Edith’s loyal friend, 
bristling. 

“The doubt that this wild story may be made up.” 

“No! No! If it was untrue she would have made 
it up before and told it at the inquest. I believe every 
word she says,” declared Aileen, emphatically. 

“I hope the magistrate will,” murmured Dick with 
a shrug, “she appears before a magistrate in Tarhaven 
eight days from now.” 

“Then in those eight days we must learn the truth.” 

“It may condemn her.” 


THE DARK PATH 


107 


“No, I am sure that it will set her free. You blow 
hot and cold,” said the girl impatiently, “one moment 
you say that Edith is innocent, and the next you seem 
to doubt if she is.” 

“True! The fact is, I want to believe her innocent, 
and yet the evidence-” 

“I don’t care what the evidence is, Edith never 
killed that man.” 

“What a purely feminine view you take of the 
matter,” said Hustings, ironically, then added with 
genuine admiration, “You are very loyal.” 

“I hold to Edith, whatever Edith may have done,” 
she replied, resolutely, and ended, inconsequentlv, “not 
that I believe she has done anything.” 

Dick nodded absently. Then: “You know when 
the tide is coming in, it seems, from the surface wave¬ 
lets, to be going out—yet it is coming in all the time.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s a parable. The surface wavelets are my doubts 
of Miss Danby’s honesty; but the under-surge, ful¬ 
filling its purpose, is my belief in her innocence.” 

“If you knew Edith as well as I do, you would have 
no doubts.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” Dick again became ironical. “When 
she keeps the secret of her relationship to Slanton from 
you? That doesn’t sound as if you knew her inti¬ 
mately. I’ll say this much—that I believe Miss Danby 
to be a good sort, tangled up, against her will, in 
Slanton’s nets. And, although the man is dead, the 
nets still hold.” 

“We must find the nets and get her out of the nets, 
said Aileen determinedly. 

“I agree! But how?” Hustings suddenly rose 
from his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and looked 



io8 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


down at the girl from his tall height. “I say, do you 
believe in the Unseen ?” 

“You appear to be full of unexpected remarks to¬ 
night, Dick. Yes, I do. Why?” 

The young man strolled the full length of the room 
and back again before replying, finally halting before 
the girl. “I am a materialistic sort of chap myself: 
an agnostic, not knowing what to believe or dis¬ 
believe.” 

“You apply that reasoning to Edith’s troubles,” 
said Aileen, meaningly, “but go on, explain your¬ 
self !” 

“Well, it’s this. Do the dead come back to haunt the 
living with suggestions ?” 

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” the girl pondered. 
“Since the war the barrier between this world and the 
next has become very weak. Well?” 

“Well! I mean this: that all day long, someone— 
something has been at my ear, repeating one word, 
incessantly.” 

“And the word ?” 

“The last Miss Danby heard Slanton say—Whisper¬ 
ing!” Dick spoke in a low tone; adding in a louder 
one, “I believe that word* is the clue to the truth.” 

“In what way?” 

“ ‘Search me!’ as the Yanks say. I can’t explain. 
The voice is voiceless, if you can grasp my meaning. 
Slanton was a Spiritualist,” he ended, abruptly. 

“What has that got to do with this?” 

“Well—er—you see—that is!” Dick stumbled over 
his words, feeling that he was making an ass of him¬ 
self, but an inward conviction drove him to con¬ 
tinue more clearly. “Slanton was always trying tcx 


THE DARK PATH 


109 

get through to the other side, when he was alive: 
now that he is dead he may be trying to reach back 
through me. Old habits cling, you know/’ 

“Oh nonsense,” Aileen spoke scoffingly, but uneas¬ 
ily. “I don’t believe it.” 

“You are the materialist now. It may be nonsense 
—I don’t say that it isn’t nonsense; yet the fact re¬ 
mains that the word—Whispering—is the clue. I 
feel it—I am sure of it. Slanton may be giving it to 
me so that I can revenge him.” 

“Or that he may save Edith. He harmed her enough 
in his life-time: so perhaps being dead and knowing 
more, he wishes to undo that harm.” 

“Who is blowing hot and cold now?” 

“I am!” she admitted promptly, “we are both waver- 
ers, Dick, and this conversation is unhealthy. Any¬ 
how, suppose we accept this word as the clue, how are 
you going to make use of it?” 

“I’ll tell you that after I have questioned Jenny.” 
Dick glanced at the grandfather’s clock ticking solemnly 
in the corner. “She’ll be here in five or six minutes, 
if Brent has delivered my message.” 

Aileen nodded approvingly. “But before she comes, 
tell me how you think Slanton was murdered?” 

Dick’s eyes looked amazement at this unnecessary 
question. “You heard the evidence at the inquest, 
didn’t you? He was strangled.” 

“Not by Edith.” 

“We’ll let it go at that. Maybe the person whose 
footsteps she heard on the other side of the wall— 
the footsteps which made her run away—climbed over 
the wall to complete his job.” 

“How do you mean—complete his job?” 


no 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“My dear girl, if there is, as we think, a third party 
concerned in this matter, that person brought Slanton 
here when Slanton was insensible.” 

“You forget the return-half ticket found in the doc¬ 
tor’s pocket.” 

“No I don’t! The third party probably followed 
him to Cornby, got hold of him on the way to Fryfeld, 
and tattooed him while he was drugged.” 

“But how could Slanton be drugged while coming 
here ?” 

“I can’t say. That is what we have to find out. 
The whole business smacks of premeditation to me. 
I don’t know where Slanton was drugged and branded, 
or how he was branded and drugged. But the person 
who lurked behind the wall did all that, and then car¬ 
ried his victim on to the lawn. After hiding the 
lacquer-box in the book-case, he got back on to the 
high road and waited. When Miss Danby ran away, 
he got over the wall again and—as I say—completed 
his job.” 

“Why couldn’t he have strangled him before?” 

“Impossible to say!” Dick broke into an exasper¬ 
ated laugh. “You do ask the most unanswerable ques¬ 
tions. Hush! Here comes Jenny: she may have a 
reply to some of them, if not to all,” he raised his voice, 
which had fallen to a whisper, “Come in!” 

Jenny, with her large moon-face looming above a 
bright orange sports-coat, and with her untidy red hair, 
straggling from under a flowery broad-brimmed hat, 
appeared at the now-open door, stolid and substantial. 
“ ’Eard as you wants me,” said Jenny in her heavy 
voice, and looking at Hustings. 

“I do. Come in and close the door. Take that 
chair and answer my questions.” 


THE DARK PATH 


in 


The servant obeyed the first two commands, but 
seemed disposed to refuse obedience to the third. “I 
dunno as there’s anything I kin answer.” 

Aileen spoke, before Dick could open his mouth. 
'‘For my sake, Jenny, reply to Mr. Hustings. I am in 
danger of being arrested as having something to do 
with the death of Dr. Slanton.” 

“You ain’t got nothing to do with it, Miss,” said 
Jenny with sullen fierceness. 

“Inspector Trant has his doubts of that,” observed 
Dick, seeing that the only way to the girl’s confidence 
was through her affection for Aileen. 

“Dunno as ’e’s much clarse,” drawled Jenny, stolidly. 
Then, leaning forward she patted her young mistress 
clumsily on the knee. “Don’t you taik on, Miss. 
You’ve bin good to me, so I’ll be good to you.” 

“Here’s your opportunity, then,” declared Hustings, 
cheerfully. “Miss Danby says that Dr. Slanton got 
you this situation.” 

“I ain’t got no reason to saiy as he didn’t.” 

“What do you know of Dr. Slanton?” 

“Not much. One waiy I didn’t taike to ’im: an¬ 
other waiy I did, some’ow. Did me a good turn he 
did, gitting me ’ere.” 

“Why did he take the trouble to get you this place ?” 

Jenny twisted her pudgy fingers together, glanced 
cunningly at Aileen, who was looking at her appeal¬ 
ingly, and finally grinned largely. “Dunno why I 
shouldn’t speak strite,” she grunted, hoarsely, “it was 
this waiy, Mister. I ’ad a boy as wos called Bill which 
I took down Whitechapel waiy from a no-clarse gal. 
’E wos pinched for burglaring a cove’s ’ouse, and 
the gal clawed me fearful saiying as I double- 
crossed Bill. A blarsted lie, if ever there wos one,” 


112 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


said Miss Walton, fiercely. “Anyhow, she clawed me 
up and I wos taiken to the ’orspital, where that doctor- 
bloke as was done in bossed the job.” 

“The Plantagenet Hospital in Chelsea,” said Hust¬ 
ings, doubtfully. “How did you come to be taken 
there when your fight with this girl occurred—I take 
it—in Whitechapel?” 

“Oh I’d seen the doctor-bloke afore. ’E uster go 
opium-smoking in Ole Wung’s crib in them parts. 
And when ’e wos coming fro’ the crib, night-time, ’e 
found me clawed-up in ther street—Jibbers Alley is 
the naime—by Isabeller Crane. So ’e acts the gent, ’e 
does, and taiks me to ’is ’orspital. When I got orl 
raight ’e ses as ’ow a laidy down ’ere wanted a gal, so 
I taikes on the job.” 

Hearing for the first time of Jenny’s none too re¬ 
spectable past, Aileen shrank a little, to be im¬ 
mediately scowled upon by the girl. “Thet’s raight, 
Miss; jes’ you dr-awr your skirts fro’ a down-an-outer 
like me.” 

“No! No! No!” Aileen rose to stand by the 
self-confessed sinner and pat her on the shoulder. 
“I don’t care what you have been—I only know what 
you are. I trust you thoroughly as my very good 
friend.” 

Jenny caught the kind hand that was patting her, 
and kissed it. “Thet’s good enuff fur me,” she said, 
huskily, “you don’t need to saiy better, nohow, Miss 
Aileen. I’m ’and-an’-glove wif pinchers and coves 
as the cops are arter. Yuss, and Chinks too, in a waiy; 
but I ain’t never been bad wif men. I’m es good a 
gal es you’re, Miss. Bill wouldn’t marry me else 
when ’e comes outer quod.” 


THE DARK PATH 


XI 3 


“You need never go back to that life,” Aileen as¬ 
sured her, earnestly. 

“Not me!” declared Jenny, resolutely, “but when 
Bill comes out—Vs gotter two years’ stretch—I’m go¬ 
ing to be ’is wife. He knows as I’m strite.” 

Aileen sat down again, nodding. “And Dr. Slan- 
ton?” 

“Dunno as I kin tell you anything more abaht 
’im.” 

“Why did he get you this situation?” asked Dick, 
impatiently. 

“Kind ’eart I sup’ose,” drawled Jenny, sneeringly. 

“Oh, come now, my good girl-” 

“Yuss, I knows wot you’d saiy, Mister, and you 
wouldn’t be fur wrong in saiying it. ’E wos a bad ’un 
out-an-out. Ses ’e ter me in ’orspital, es ’e’d a laidy 
friend ’ere, ’e wanted to keep an eye on. Thort es 
she’d do a bunk, so ’e ses to me, ’e ses: ‘You git 
daown and keep yer lights on ’er, sending me a telligrim 
if she cuts ’er lucky.’ ” 

“In plain words you acted as Slanton’s spy,” growled 
Hustings, disapprovingly. 

Jenny shrugged. “ ’Ad to git grub some’ow, 
Mister. Never liked thet dame mesself, wif ’er ’igh- 
mightiness. But I do love you, Miss!” she assured 
Aileen. 

“So you know nothing more of Dr. Slanton’s past,” 
Aileen looked disappointed. 

“Naow! ’Cept es ’e come daown times and times 
to smoke in Ole Wung’s crib.” 

“Did he get into any rows in Whitechapel?” ques¬ 
tioned Dick. 

“Wot d’y think? ’Eaps and ’eaps. Ole Wung tried 



THE WHISPERING LANE 


114 

to knife ’im onct, but ’e tipped thet Chink the Long 
Melford and scooted. But ’e come back!” went on 
Jenny with a note of admiration, “yuss ’e did, be¬ 
ing afraid of nothing. And ’e knowed too much abaht 
Ole Wung fur Ole Wung to cut up narsty. Oh thet 
doctor-bloke was clever and tough enuff I don’t ’arf 
think; and ’e did me a good turn. But”—here her 
eyes and her voice grew vindictive—“ ’e wos a 
beast. Don’t wonner a bit es thet Miss Danby choked 
’im.” 

"‘She didn’t!” contradicted Aileen, angrily, “don’t 
say that.” 

“Orl raight. Shan’t ef you don’t want me to. All 
th-saime, if she didn’t, 00 did?” 

“We thought you might have some idea, Jenny.” 

“Me, Mister!” The stolid servant shaken out of 
her stolidity, rose in wrath, “I dunno nuffin, I don’t. 
Saiy I did it, do yer?” 

“No! But I fancied you might know of some 
Whitechapel person who had a grudge against the 
doctor.” 

“Oh, I knows ’eaps of them as ’ad grudges,” said 
Jenny, indifferently. “Ole Wung—Fancy Charlie 
—Roaring Luke—Totty Jones—Wu Ti. ’Eaps of 
’em.” 

“Do you think that any one of these-?” 

“Naow!” snarled Jenny, curtly and sullenly, as she 
walked to the door, “and ef you’re coming along o’ 
me, Miss Aileen, I’m on the jump.” 

When the servant disappeared, Dick turned to 
assist his visitor into her woolly blue cloak. “Do you 
think that she is hiding things?” he asked, nodding 
towards the door, for somehow he sensed reticence 
—the withholding of something, which could have 



THE DARK PATH 


H 5 

been said, should have been said, but which was not 
said. 

“I think not!” Aileen pondered. “No! Jenny 
is too fond of me to hide anything likely to help. 
She is a rough diamond, Dick. I am sure she is 
honest.” 

‘Til make certain of that when I look up this opium- 
den,” said Dick, grimly, “it is necessary for me to see 
Old Wung: he might be the third party we want.” 

Aileen shook her head. “A Chinaman wouldn’t 
tattoo a Biblical name.” 

“Well—er—no,” agreed Hustings, reluctantly, “and 
yet the tattooing—the lacquer-box—the opium- 
drugging: these suggest the Far East. I must follow 
all possible clues you know.” 

“Don’t forget the clue of the swastika,” she reminded 
him, “the murderer has it.” 

“You can’t be sure of that. It might have been 
dropped in the wood.” 

“No! I thought of that and searched thoroughly. 
It is not there.” 

“Well,” sighed Dick, “that’s one clue and Slanton’s 
last word is another.” 

At this moment Jenny peeped in. “Ain’t you com¬ 
ing?” she asked, querulously. 

“Yes! Yes!” Aileen drew her cloak round her and 
asked a question suggested by Dick’s speech, “Jenny, 
what do you know of—Whispering?” 

“Nuffin! I never whispers mesself and ’ates them 
es do. Sneaky I calls it.” 

“Did you ever hear Dr. Slanton use that word?” 

“Naow! And I carn’t wayt ’ere orl night.” 

“But Jenny,”—Aileen ran after her, passing into the 
hall. 


n6 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Don’t be a worrit, Miss. Ef the wust comes, I’m 
’ere to ’elp you to bust up the wust. And,” ended 
Jenny, sharply, “I can ’elp. So there!” and she stalked 
out sulkily, leaving two very perplexed people staring 
at one another. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 

Having collected such information as was possible 
under present foggy conditions, Hustings proceeded 
to deal with the same as best he could. The trail, 
faint as it was, led him to London—to that London- 
under-London, of which, according to Jenny Walton, 
the dead man had been a secret citizen. And, how¬ 
ever doubtful he might have been of her probity in 
several ways, the woman’s statements proved to be 
correct in this instance. In the lawyer’s opinion she 
was withholding important details, judging from the 
significance of her final remark in the library. Never¬ 
theless, so much as she had admitted was valu¬ 
able and capable of proof. Dick learned this from 
Bender. 

The individual answering to this name was a shabby, 
under-sized man, with the mask of a fox and the 
squeaky cry of a field-mouse. His dingy frock-coat 
and baggy striped trousers were the last word in mis¬ 
fits, and he wore a battered silk hat, pulled well down 
over his wholly bald cranium. With his many pockets 
stuffed with papers, and always carrying a bulgy um¬ 
brella, Mr. Bender sidled, rather than walked, con¬ 
stantly turning his cunning eyes downwards, upwards, 
sideways, in search of possibilities. He was a born 
Paul Pry, searching out secrets from the sheer love 
of making those secrets his own, and was utilizing 


n 8 THE WHISPERING LANE 

his inquisitive instincts, as an inquiry agent, for the 
betterment of his fortunes. A brother-solicitor had 
recommended him to Hustings as a useful sleuth-hound, 
and Hustings had hired him promptly to look with 
those cunning eyes into the none-too-clean past of 
Dr. Cuthbert Slanton. 

Naturally the young man would have infinitely pre¬ 
ferred to work single-handed, but his one and only 
visit to Old Wung’s opium-den, impressed him thor¬ 
oughly with a sense of his incompetence as an amateur 
detective. An expert in gutter doings was needed, 
and he found such a one in Bender. The wary little 
fox was just the unscrupulous searcher-into-other- 
people’s affairs which the lawyer required for his 
purpose. Within four days frorn the date of hiring, 
Mr. Bender proved his value, since he learned more 
in that time than Dick could have learned in a month. 
And the fourth day saw him sidling into the office 
of Hustings, Warry & Son, to make his report. The 
senior partner of the firm received him in a lordly 
room of a Georgian-fashionable house in Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields, and greeted him with mingled relief and 
impatience. “I thought you were never coming,” 
snapped out that harassed young man. 

Bender deposited his small person in the depths of 
a comfortable chair, placing on the carpet his hat and 
umbrella: one on one side, one on the other. “Ah 
youth, Mr. Hustings, sir, youth. Rome wasn’t built 
in a day.” 

“And the horse is the noblest of all animals,” re¬ 
torted Dick, sitting at his writing-table to snatch up 
an ivory paper-cutter and fidget. “Don’t quote copy¬ 
book maxims to me. What have you found out?” 

In no wise disturbed by this brusque reception, Ben- 


THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


119 

der leaned back with folded arms and fast-closed eyes. 
“I can talk better when they’re shut,” he squeaked, 
“seeing, as it were, inside my head, Mr. Hustings, 
sir,” and he began his recital in a monotonous tone of 
voice, shrilly clear. 

The recital took some time and covered a consider¬ 
able space of ground, so Dick curbed his impatience 
to listen intently. In the capacity of an out-of-door 
patient, Bender had become friendly with one of the 
Plantagenet Hospital nurses, and, in some mysterious 
way, had learned from her that Slanton was a respect¬ 
able, clever and reliable house-surgeon. Owing to his 
reticent character and saturnine looks, added to an 
unsympathetic manner, he was by no means popular, 
being regarded rather as a Robot than as a man. 
But his reputation was unblemished, his assiduity, 
as a doctor, great, and he was high in favour with 
the authorities. If he had a fault, it was his habit 
of going away, sometimes for a day, sometimes for 
a night, more often than any other member of the 
staff. Twice or thrice his superiors had remonstrated 
with him, disapproving of these frequent and desultory 
holidays. But on each occasion Slanton had grimly 
offered his resignation. It was never accepted, since 
his scientific attainments were so great, and his med¬ 
ical capabilities so proven. Beyond the eccentricity 
of his many disappearances, which he disdained to 
explain, there was nothing against him. His doings 
were finally accepted as the usual freakishness of 
genius. “And now?”—questioned Dick when Bender 
arrived at this point. 

“Oh, now, Mr. Hustings, sir,” said the little man, 
opening his eyes, “those in the hospital verify the 
proverb that the herd turn on the wounded deer. As 


120 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


there was nothing too good for Mr. Slanton, now there 
is nothing too bad. He was murdered, they say, as 
a reward of his evil-doing. Secret vice has been the 
cause of his downfall. I won’t tell you, Mr. Hustings, 
sir, what they say about Miss Danby. It might hurt 
your feelings.” 

“They believe her to be guilty?” 

“Oh yes. And credit her with being as vicious as 
her victim.” 

“And the tattooing?” 

“They say that the branded name was just what 
the tattooed name described him to be.” 

“And all this upon what grounds ?” 

“None, save the evidence at the inquest. The 
wounded deer, Mr. Hustings, sir. And another prov¬ 
erb—any stick is useful to beat a scamp.” 

“I never heard that proverb, Mr. Bender. Well they 
are right about Slanton being a scamp: but their opin¬ 
ion of Miss Danby is wrong. She is the victim of 
circumstances, and it’s up to you and to me to prove 
her so. Go on!” 

Bender closed his eyes again and went on, this time 
passing from the light into the shadow. That is, he 
descended into the under^world, and crept along the 
crooked paths used by the dead man when indulging 
in his secret lusts. These led to thieves’ kitchens, to 
police-sought dancing-saloons, to opium-dens and such¬ 
like unsavoury haunts of animal gratification. In this 
place and that the prowling little fox had collected 
damning information, which revealed only too truly 
the Mr. Hyde side of Slanton’s complex character. 
With his strong will, powerful physique, and command 
of money, the man had dominated those wastrels of 


THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


121 


civilisation who ministered to his vicious tastes. But 
all the details of the man’s doings were so general, 
and so far from leading up to the point which Hustings 
wished to reach, that he interrupted Bender impa¬ 
tiently, “All this is interesting, but not sufficiently so 
to me. Did you come across anyone likely to have 
murdered the man?” 

“Well, no, sir. He made many enemies, owing to 
the way in which he snatched women from this man and 
that. But they were all afraid of their tyrant, as he 
was a scientific fighter, and fought on all and every 
occasion. In the kingdom of the Blind, the one-eyed 
is king,” said Bender, in his proverbial way of talking, 
“but Slanton had two eyes and knew how to use them.” 

“What about Old Wung?” 

“He hated Slanton and once tried to knife him. I 
spent several hours in his den, but could learn nothing. 
Besides,” went on Bender, taking much the same view 
as Aileen, “a Chinaman wouldn’t have tattooed a Bib¬ 
lical name like Cain on Slanton’s forehead.” 

“I have heard that before,” Dick nodded, sapiently, 
“but surely Slanton ran some chance of being black¬ 
mailed?” 

Bender nodded in his turn. “One man tried that, 
Mr. Hustings, sir. He followed the doctor home-” 

“To the hospital?” 

“No, sir—to a cottage the doctor rented at Hamp¬ 
stead. Slanton had him arrested for burglary, and 
the man got two years.” 

“Oh!” Dick remembered what Jenny had confessed, 
“was the man’s name Bill?” 

“Yes, Mr. Hustings, sir. Bill Tyson.” 

“I see. Probably that was why Slanton got Jenny 



122 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


the job with Miss Danby. He was sorry that he 
robbed the girl of her man, and sought to make 
amends.” 

Bender wagged his bald head solemnly, “You told 
me all about that girl, sir, when engaging me to handle 
the matter. And then you admitted that, on her own 
confession, she had been sent to spy upon Miss Danby. 
Dr. Slanton only did what he did do, Mr. Hustings, sir, 
because the girl was useful to him in that capacity. 
No! No! The leopard cannot change his spots, nor 
the Ethiopian his skin,” ended the little man, senten- 
tiously, “there was no good in the man.” 

“There lives some soul of good in all things evil,” 
retorted Dick, adopting Bender’s favourite method of 
illustrating his points by quotations. 

“Not with this man, sir, not with this man. He 
only reaped what he had long sown, and deserved all 
he got. A cold-blooded scientist on the surface, Mr. 
Hustings, sir: but underneath a very hot-blooded 
animal.” 

“You can’t mix oil and water,” said Dick, dryly. 

“In this case I think I can, sir. Dr. Slanton was a 
Palaeolithic man, with the veneer of our present Caino- 
zoic civilisation.” 

“I never knew that you were so learned, Bender.” 

“I keep my eyes open and my brain filled, sir. And 
now-” 

“Yes, now?” Dick rose with a dismal foreboding 
of failure, “what now? Nothing you have told me is 
of any use towards solving the mystery of the Fryfeld 
crime. And four days out of the eight are gone. 
When Miss Danby appears before the magistrate I’ll 
have no fresh evidence to help her.” 



THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


123 

“I didn’t tell you everything, sir,” said Bender, wrig¬ 
gling out of his chair. 

“Eh?” Hustings wheeled. “Why—what—well?” 

“You told me of the last word which Miss Danby 
heard Dr. Slant on speak.” 

“Yes. Whispering! Well?” 

“Well, Mr. Hustings, sir, I used that word again and 
again, both in the hospital and down in the under¬ 
world. But without success. Then I remembered 
that you hinted to me that Dr. Slanton had been a 
Spiritualist.” 

“I did. I had an idea that the word had some¬ 
thing to do with his spiritualistic philanderings, from 
its being dinned into my ears, persistently. I daresay 
you thought I was talking nonsense.” 

“Not nonsense, sir; not nonsense. There are more 
things in heaven and earth-” 

“Yes! Yes! I know that well-worn quotation,” 
broke in Dick, testily, “get on.” \ 

“With your permission, sir. Well then, I knew 
three or four spiritualists—mediums. I have been 
attracted to searchings into the unknown in my 
time.” 

“And found a mare’s nest,” scoffed the lawyer con¬ 
temptuously. 

“Not in this case, sir,” squeaked Bender, indig¬ 
nantly. “I asked many questions about Dr. Slanton, 
and learned that he was a well-known figure in Spirit¬ 
ualistic circles. He was always seeking to penetrate 
the veil-” 

“Well, well, well!” 

“Near his cottage at Hampstead, sir, lives a famous 
medium—Mrs. Grutch, who was frequently consulted 




124 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


by him. It is strange that I should know her, and that 
she should have known him, seeing that you are em¬ 
ploying me to search into the mystery of his death. 
Mrs. Grutch consulted the Spirits, and-” 

“And learned nothing that can be used in a court of 
law. Bender, Bender, you ought to know better than 
that.” 

“Mrs. Grutch knows better, sir. She is waiting 

without. With your permission-” and Bender 

trotted towards the door. 

“Oh damn it, I don’t want any seance rubbish here, 
man.” 

“You need not fear, Mr. Hustings, sir. Mrs. 
Grutch always refuses to give sittings to unbelievers. 
Still,” advised Bender with his hand on the door, “it 
would be to your advantage to see her.” 

Dick sat down resignedly, as all this seemed to him 
to be a waste of time. “Oh have her in, Bender: 
have her in.” 

Like magic the little man disappeared, and reap¬ 
peared in an equally magical manner with a bulky 
female at his heels. “Mrs. Grutch!” he squeaked, as 
the ponderous lady rolled heavily into the room, “and, 
Mr. Hustings!” thus introducing lawyer and client with 
due formality. 

“Please seat yourself, Mrs. Grutch!” said Dick, 
gravely. “I’m glad to see you.” 

“Are you now?” queried Mrs. Grutch, subsiding 
like a spent billow into the nearest chair. “I never 
should have thought it, pleasant young gentleman as 
you are. Never! For Bender, here, tells me that you 
are an unbeliever.” 

“I keep an open mind,” observed the young man, 
dryly. 




THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


I2 5 


“Well now, if that isn’t something comfortable to 
hear!” and Mrs. Grutch, placing two fat hands on two 
fat knees, smiled amiably. 

She was a woman both broad and tall, also stout, 
and with a small-featured face, so neat and trifling that 
it looked ridiculously out of keeping with her huge 
body. With a pug-nose, a rabbit-mouth, and a narrow 
forehead, she likewise possessed two little piggy eyes 
of greenish-grey, with which she sharply surveyed the 
world, as she conceived it to be. And her conception 
was that the world should supply her with all the 
comforts and, if possible, all the luxuries of civilisa¬ 
tion. Her complexion was fair and freckled, her hair 
smooth and sandy, so she would have seemed quite 
a meek, retiring person, but for the searching observ¬ 
ance of her pin-point eyes. Clothed in a voluminous 
black silk dress, partially concealed by a profusely- 
beaded dolman and wearing an ancient bonnet, adorned 
with jet flowers, she suggested a respectable char¬ 
woman. But no charwoman would have worn so 
many coloured beads and mystic charms, not to speak 
of earrings, rings, brooches and bracelets. Her whole 
person twinkled with these: rattling and jingling with 
every movement. Hustings gathered all this at a 
glance, then asked a leading question. “What do you 
know, Mrs. Grutch?” 

“Money is money,” stated the stout lady, less 
irrelevantly than might be supposed, and with a 
knowing leer. 

“Oh, I shall make it worth your while.” 

“And the amount, sir?” Mrs. Grutch became 
respectful to the holder of the purse. 

“That depends upon the quality of your informa¬ 
tion.” 


126 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Bender nodded approvingly. “No use buying a 
pig in a poke/’ said Bender. 

After some reflection Mrs. Grutch spoke persua¬ 
sively. “A fiver now, sir. Eh?” 

“If what you can tell me is worth that amount, you 
shall have it,” assented Dick. 

“It’s worth more, sir,” exclaimed the woman, and 
so vehemently that her many ornaments rattled 
alarmingly, “but there—I was never a greedy mouth. 
Take all you can get and be thankful, is always my 
motto.” 

Hustings nodded impatiently. “What do you 
know ?” 

“I know Dr. Slanton,” asserted the lady, im¬ 
pressively. 

“The man is dead: you mean that you did know 
him.” 

“Nothing of the sort,” said the famous medium, 
loftily, “you, being an unbeliever, can put it in that 
ignorant way if you like, and no offence meant. But 
he is more alive than we are. And”—she embraced 
the whole room in one swift glance—“there he 
is, listening to us talking! Over there,” she 
pointed. . 

“You might ask him to talk himself,” urged Dick, 
ironically, “and explain.” 

“He isn’t permitted to do that,” stated Mrs. Grutch, 
now in an attitude of intent listening. “Justice will 
be done, when justice is done.” 

“And the sun, rising in the east, sets in the west,” 
retorted Dick, crossly. “You are too obvious, Mrs. 
Grutch. Ask your invisible friend what is the mean¬ 
ing of the last word Miss Danby heard him utter.” 

“I don’t need to do that, sir. I can help you by 


THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


127 


physical means. It is my opinion that he”—she 
jerked her head to indicate the invisible victim—“was 
drawn to his death by that very word.” 

“Oh!” Hustings smiled disbelievingly, “and I sup¬ 
pose you will say that it was Dr. Slanton who kept 
shouting that word incessantly in my ear.” 

“I do say it,” declared Mrs. Grutch, so energetically 
that the charms and beads jingled again, “follow up 
that word and you’ve got him.” 

“Got who?” 

“Him!—the man who killed the flesh but not the 
spirit.” 

“How do you know that the criminal is a man?” 

“The spirit, now in this room, tells me so.” 

“Then Miss Danby is innocent?” 

“As a babe unborn!” said Mrs. Grutch, with clinch¬ 
ing emphasis and renewed rattlings, “a man did it 
and for doing it a man will suffer.” 

“There, you see, Mr. Hustings, sir,” struck in 
Bender, triumphantly, “I told you it was important to 
interview Mrs. Grutch.” 

“Tush!” Dick spoke contemptuously, “She has said 
nothing which would be accepted as evidence in a 
court of law. I want facts: not this crazy spirit- 
chatter, which is all double-Dutch to me. Your fiver 
is in danger, Mrs. Grutch.” 

“I think not sir. There’s more to come. If I can 
tell you what the word means, and why he said it when 
casting off his body, you’ll pay won’t you?” 

“If the word will lead me to the truth—certainly.” 

“Well then,” said Mrs. Grutch, slowly and impres¬ 
sively, “he wanted to say two words, but could only 
get out one. ‘Whispering’ he said; but didn’t add 
‘Lane!’ It was Whispering Lane he wanted to say.” 


128 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


"And would have said if Miss Danby hadn’t run 
away,” observed Bender, quickly. 

"Whispering Lane!” echoed Dick, mystified, "what’s 
that?” 

"It’s a place where spirit manifestations are taking 
place,” explained the medium, now on her own ground 
and briskly business-like. "For some three to four 
months they have been going on, as is well-known 
in Spirit circles. Not wishing publicity, which the 
Friends on the Other Side don’t like, we have kept 
this to ourselves, investigating it privately. That’s 
why you haven’t seen any mention of it in the news¬ 
papers. Drat ’em for meddling busybodies,” said 
Mrs. Grutch wrathfully, and with an indignant jingle 
of her ornaments. 

Seeing that his patron looked more mystified than 
ever, Bender took on the conversation, opening it with 
a proverb, as usual. "Silence is golden,” he quoted 
sententiously, "so for your golden silence, I shall give 
my silver speech.” 

"Fire ahead then!” Dick resigned himself to the 
little man’s eccentricities, glancing sideways at Mrs. 
Grutch, who looked rather offended in thus being set 
aside. "You don’t mind, do you?” he asked her, 
abruptly. 

"Oh, no, sir,” she snorted, with a glare which be¬ 
lied her denial. "I was never one to talk, unless 
so requested. But of course”—she cajoled—"the 
fiver-?” 

"Will be yours when the story is finished. Go on, 
Bender.” 

Thus adjured, Bender spoke his mind. "On the 
outskirts of the village of Wessbury, near Chelmsford, 
and at the end of a deeply-sunken and leafy lane, 



THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


129 


there stands a bungalow, inhabited by Mr. and Mrs. 
Brine, for some years before the war. They were 
greatly attached to one another, and when the husband 
was killed in action, the wife took his death so much to 
heart that three months later she committed suicide. 
This being a sin, she is condemned to haunt the place 
looking for him, but never finding him.” 

“Does she haunt the bungalow as well as the lane?” 
inquired Dick, sceptically. 

“Sometimes one, sometimes the other,” burst out 
Mrs. Grutch, determined to lead the conversation, 
“she has been heard in both places.” 

“Heard in both places?” 

“She’s never seen,” explained the medium with a 
mysterious look, “only her wailing voice is heard in 
the lane on certain nights.” 

“Wind in the trees,” suggested Hustings, with a 
shrug. 

“Wind doesn’t talk like human beings,” insisted 
Mrs. Grutch, “you may scoff your worst, sir, being an 
unbeliever, but I have heard the voices myself.” 

“What do they say—or rather what does she say?” 

The stout lady immediately screeched like a banshee: 
“Where are you—oh my darling, where are you? 
Edgar! Edgar! Edgar! Where, oh where?” then 
dropping her voice to its ordinary pitch she went on, 
“I heard those words myself.” 

“In the bungalow?” 

“In the lane, sir, although I did visit the bungalow 
to investigate. And I must say that Mrs. Jerr gave 
me every assistance, just as she gave to our other Be¬ 
lievers, when they went down to help the poor spirit 
to find rest.” 

“Mrs. Jerr?” 


130 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“The old lady who rents the bungalow from its 
present owner, Mr. Simon Chane, he having bought 
the property after the suicide of Mrs. Brine,” gabbled 
the medium, all in one long breath, “like yourself, she 
is an unbeliever, yet even she admits to hearing the 
voices—noises she calls them.” 

“And how does Mrs. Jerr explain the phenomenon ?” 

“Scoffs at it,” said Mrs. Grutch, sadly, “talks of 
wind in the trees, and a stray parrot, screeching what 
it’s picked up, as parrots do.” 

“Mrs. Brine did have a pet parrot, you mentioned, 
Mrs. Grutch,” struck in Bender, doubtfully, “and it 
may have picked up her wailing for her dead husband.” 

“Don’t you be an unbeliever, Bender,” cried Mrs. 
Grutch, vehemently, “it’s spirit-talk—I know it is. A 
message from the Summer-world.” 

“Scarcely a message,” remarked Dick, dryly, “see¬ 
ing that it is directed to no one in the flesh. But” 
—Hustings turned his face inquiringly to Bender— 
“what has this queer story to do with Dr. Slanton’s 
death?” 

“He was a spiritualist, Mr. Hustings, sir,” said the 
little man eagerly, “and having heard of this phenome¬ 
non, he must have gone down to examine it. As he 
spoke of The Whispering Lane—for it is plain to me 
that he would have added Lane had Miss Danby 
waited to listen—I think he was drugged and branded 
there: afterwards being taken to Fryfeld, so that Miss 
Danby might be implicated in the matter.” 

“That is a very far-fetched theory,” mused Dick, 
stroking his chin perplexedly, “but there is some¬ 
thing in what you suggest. I’ll go down to Wess- 
bury myself, and see what I can learn. Are the 


THE MYSTERIOUS WORD 


I 3 1 

voices”—he looked at Mrs. Grutch—“heard every 
night?” 

“Only on certain nights, Mrs. Jerr says, but I don’t 
know, myself, what particular nights. You may hear 
them: you may not. Spirits,” ended Mrs. Grutch 
loftily, “are not to be dictated to by mere flesh and 
blood.” 

“Do you know positively that Dr. Slanton went 
down to investigate?” 

“No I don’t, sir. But many of our Believers went, 
and when I told him about the matter—for I was the 
first to tell him—he said he would like to see into 
things for himself. But whether he went, or whether 
he didn’t, I can’t be sure. I never meddle with what 
isn’t my business.” 

“Slanton must have gone to Wessbury, Mr. Hust¬ 
ings, sir,” insisted Bender, “else why should The 
Whispering Lane have dwelt so strongly in his mind 
as to make him speak about it, when just recovering 
from the drugging?” 

“Yes! I agree, Bender. There is your fiver, Mrs. 
Grutch.” Dick passed along a Bank of England note 
to the medium, who grabbed it greedily. “Your 
information is worth all the spirit-chatter you favoured 
me with.” 

Mrs. Grutch surged upward from the depths of her 
chair, with a pitying glance at the sceptic. “You 
can’t make a blind man see, nor a deaf man hear, so 
why waste time in doing either? But he knows”— 
she pointed to the comer of the room, where an invisi¬ 
ble Slanton was supposed to be standing—“and he is 
glad that you are going to revenge him.” 

“On Miss Danby?” said Hustings, contemptuously. 


132 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“The Spirit has no wish to harm Miss Danby. 
It’s the man who drugged him and branded him and 
strangled him, he wants to be caught and hanged. 
There! Tve said my say. Take it or leave it!” and 
she rolled tumultuously jingling towards the door. 

“One moment, Mrs. Grutch,” Dick called after her, 
“what is Mrs. Jerr like?” 

“A very affable lady: well-to-do and keeps a 
servant.” 

“And the servant?” asked the solicitor, smiling at 
the woman’s answer. 

“A Chinaman—Wu Ti,” said Mrs. Grutch, and 
rolled out of the room. 

“Wu Ti!” gasped Dick. He recalled Jenny’s nam¬ 
ing of Slanton’s enemies. 


CHAPTER X 


HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 

When in possession of the really valuable information 
supplied both by Mrs. Grutch and the shabby little in¬ 
quiry agent, Dick lost no time in making use of it. 
There was true wisdom in his thus speeding up mat¬ 
ters, since Edith Danby’s appearance before the Tar- 
haven magistrate could not easily be postponed, and it 
was urgently necessary to find some evidence in her 
favour, however scanty. This, the young lawyer 
hoped, would be discoverable in Wessbury, and, within 
twenty-four hours of his acquiring the knowledge, he 
was dining in the private parlour of the village inn. 
As the landlord was a communicative individual, the 
landlady an excellent cook, and the room warmly 
home-like with a brisk fire, Hustings felt very well 
satisfied with the beginnings of this wild goose chase. 
For so, he inwardly termed it, so blurred was the trail. 
“I expect I am not the first person who has asked you 
about The Whispering Lane?” said Dick, when he 
arrived at the coffee and tobacco stage of after-dinner 
delights. 

“Not by a long chalk, sir,” grinned the landlord, 
a cheerful young ex-soldier, intelligently frank, “but 
you ain’t like most of them spirit-merchants, sir. a 
weedy lot they are. Off their rockers, I reckon with 
their gone-west tosh. Beg pardon, sir, I hope I 
haven’t-” 


133 



134 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Dick shook his head, guessing why the man was con¬ 
fused, “I am a common-sense lawyer, Webb—I think 
you told me your name is Webb.” 

“Yes, sir. And I take it, sir, that you’re an officer?” 

“An ex-officer, R.G.A. Like yourself, one of the 
'also rans,’ Webb. But this Whispering Lane: is 
that story I repeated to you, as told to me, a true 
one ?” 

“Quite true, sir. Mrs. Brine did live in that bunga¬ 
low; she did kill herself when her husband was killed; 
and she does haunt the lane.” 

“Oh, come now, Webb, what about your talk of 
gone-west tosh?” 

The landlord scratched his head, thoughtfully. 
“Well I do think that there’s a lot of nothing in that: 
all the same, sir, there’s something in it, which ain’t 
to be explained easily,” he looked serious and sank his 
voice to a whisper, “for I’ve heard the voices myself.” 

“And they said-?” 

“Something like—‘Oh where are you, Edgar! 
Edgar!’ and such-like. Plain enough.” 

“It must be a trick.” 

“Maybe, sir; but it’s a trick no one has found out. 
Them spirit-merchants by the dozen have been hang¬ 
ing round for weeks, poking and prying and holding 
their blinking seances, but they’ve not got hold of 
the right end of the stick—if there is any right end,” 
added the man as an afterthought. 

Hustings looked thoughtfully into the fire for a few 
minutes then brought out of his pocket the patched- 
up photograph of Slanton—tom by Edith—which he 
had induced Trant to send him. “Is that the picture 
of an inquirer?” 

Webb took the photograph, scrutinized it carefully, 



HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 


135 


and returned it with a dubious look, “I can’t say as I 
remember anyone like that, sir. But my wife might 
have seen him.” 

“Ask Mrs. Webb to step this way, please!” 

The landlady appeared in a few minutes, inspected 
the photograph, and also declared her ignorance. 
“Never set eyes on him before,” she said, sharply, 
“but, of course, everyone drawn to Wessbury by this 
ghost-business doesn’t come to us. Lots go straight 
to the lane and straight back to London when they’ve 
heard what they came to hear. And some stay with 
friends, going night after night to listen. No, sir,” 
she passed back the photograph to its owner, “I don’t 
know him.” 

Baffled in this direction, Dick tried another. “This 
Mrs. Jerr. Who is she?” 

“Oh, quite a nice old lady, sir, who rented the Brine 
bungalow from Mr. Chane some six months ago,” 
it was Webb who explained, anticipating his wife. 
“I’ve taken eggs and milk to her lots of times, when 
Wu Ti didn’t come for them.” 

“A Chinaman!” Hustings feigned ignorance. 
“How does an old lady in an English village come to 
have a servant of that nationality?” 

This time it was Mrs. Webb who gave the informa¬ 
tion. “Mrs. Jerr is the widow of a Hong Kong silk- 
merchant, who has lived all her life in the East. She 
brought Wu Ti with her when she returned to England 
after the death of her husband. He’s devoted to her 
is Wu Ti. Although,” added Mrs. Webb with a 
shiver, “I don’t like him myself: a creepy-crawly kind 
of man.” 

“It’s the English way of looking at foreigners that 
speaks, sir,” said Webb, with a broad smile. “Wu 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


136 

Ti’s just the same as any other Chink. Eve seen lots 
of ’em in the Mile End Road, when I lived there, afore 
the war. But Minnie,” he grinned at his wife, “she’s 
lived in this here village all her life and don’t know 
things.” 

“I knew enough to marry you when you were 
billeted here,” said the landlady, tartly. “Father was 
alive then. Now you’ve got this hotel he left me, and 
me too. What else do you want?” 

Webb grinned at Dick to intimate that his wife’s 
bark was a deal worse than her bite. “She don’t mean 
half she says, sir.” 

“Oh yes she does, and a lot more if she’s time to 
say it,” snapped Mrs. Webb, with a betraying smile. 
“But Mr. Hustings doesn’t want to hear of your 
goings-on, Alf; tell him about Mrs. Jerr.” 

Webb scratched his head again. “There ain’t any¬ 
thing to tell.” 

“Well,” volunteered his wife, placidly, “you’re about 
right. She’s a quiet old lady, Mr. Hustings, keeping 
herself to herself, and Wu Ti looks after her.” 

Dick nodded. So far everything seemed to be fair 
and square and above-board, so he tried another track. 
“Did you know Mr. Chane?” 

The landlord gave the information. “Oh yes, sir. 
Minnie and me have seen him lots of times. He 
bought the bungalow two years ago from the cove as 
got it by will. But he didn’t live in it altogether. 
Stayed mostly in Town and came down week-ends.” 

“And he rented the bungalow to Mrs. Jerr some six 
months ago,” Mrs. Webb took up the story promptly, 
“saying he was going abroad on some scientific busi¬ 
ness. A pleasant gentleman he was, and clever with 
science things.” 


HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 


137 


“Oh, indeed. What was his particular line?” 

“I can’t tell you, sir.” 

“Have you his London address?” 

“No, Mr. Hustings. All I know is that he used to 
come down here, as Alf says, at week-ends; Saturday 
night he’d arrive and return to Town early Monday.” 

“Did he live alone in the bungalow?” 

“There was a man-servant who came and went with 
him, but he mostly stayed in the bungalow, while 
Mr. Chane went about enjoying himself. I never saw 
him.” 

“No more did I,” struck in Webb, hastily, “queer 
cove keeping himself to himself in the way he did.” 

“Like Mrs. Jerr,” observed Dick, dryly; “by the 
way, was this voice, or these voices, heard in Mrs. 
Brine’s time?” 

“No, sir. Only during the last few months have the 
voices been heard.” 

“And Mrs. Jerr has been in the bungalow for six 
months,” mused Hustings, with a nod. “I wonder 
if she has anything to do with the business—or Wu 
Ti?” 

Mrs. Webb laughed disbelievingly. “She doesn’t 
bother about spirit rubbish, Mr. Hustings, and is 
willing to let anyone examine the bungalow. What s 
more, she never knew Mrs. Brine, or anything about 
her, except what’s common gossip. As to Wu Ti, 
he’s a poor heathen, bowing down to stocks and 
stones, that ignorant you wouldn’t believe. It’s my 
opinion,” ended Mrs. Webb, firmly, “that it’s the 
parrot.” 

“The parrot!” echoed Dick, remembering Mrs. 
Grutch’s mention of some such bird. 

“Mrs. Brine’s pet parrot,” repeated the landlady, ‘ a 


^8 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


grey bird with pink underneath. He talked wonder¬ 
ful. So I believe that when Mrs. Brine wandered 
about the bungalow and lane crying for her husband, 
the parrot picked up some of her words and goes about 
saying them.” 

“How long has Mrs. Brine been dead?” 

“Close upon three years, sir.” 

“What became of the parrot?” 

“The cove as got the property took it away with 
him,” said Webb, striking into the conversation, “but 
it might have flowed back with its chatter. I don’t 
know as Minnie’s idea ain’t right.” 

“What is the name of the man who inherited the 
property and took away the parrot?” asked Dick, 
taking out pencil and note-book. 

“Brine, sir,” said Mrs. Webb, quickly, “Horace 
Brine—the brother of the poor young lady. He lives 
somewhere in Hampstead, but I don’t know the exact 
address. Why sir?” 

“Because I wish to find out if he has the parrot. 
If so, the voice can’t be that of the bird. I daresay 
I’ll find Mr. Horace Brine’s address in the London 
Directory.” Hustings stood up and warmed his back 
against the fire. “I am much obliged to you both for 
telling me all this. I am down here on behalf of a cli¬ 
ent, who is interested in these ghostly happenings. 
And I wish to prove to her that they are all nonsense.” 

Both Webb and his wife shook their heads simul¬ 
taneously. “I thought so once, and so did Minnie,” 
said the former, seriously, “but she’s heard the 
voices, and so’ve I. Everyone in the village has heard 
them; that’s why we call the place—The Whispering 
Lane.” 


HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 


139 


“With all this widely spread publicity, local as it 
is, why hasn’t the mysterious business got into the 
newspapers?” 

“I dunno sir,” answered Webb, scratching his head 
as usual, “but it is getting in sure enough. Two days 
ago a gent from a London daily come down here to 
ask questions.” 

“And we answered him as we’re answering you, sir,” 
chimed in the brisk little landlady, “for if there’s a 
stir in the newspapers about The Whispering Lane 
lots of people will come to The Pink Cow, and that’s 
our name for our hotel.” 

Dick laughed approvingly, as he quite understood 
their desire to make hay while the sun of curiosity 
was shining. “Well, so far, so good. How do I get 
to The Whispering Lane?” 

“Are you going there to-night, sir?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Webb. I have little time to spare and 
must make the best use of it.” 

The landlady opened her eyes widely and shivered. 
“I only went once myself, Mr. Hustings, and that was 
with Alf here. It was horrid—the darkness and the 
wailing. I wouldn’t go there again for pounds and 
pounds. Besides, it’s a nasty night, sir, with wind and 
rain and as black as pitch.” 

“All the better atmosphere for psychic happenings. 
If you will tell me how I am to find this haunted 
place-?” 

Mrs. Webb looked intelligently at her husband. 
“Jimmy!” she said, meaningly. 

“Yes!” he nodded apprehendingly. “Jimmy Took. 
What he don’t know about the business no one 
knows. I’ll send out for him, instanter,” and the ex- 



140 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


soldier left the room whistling an army song, while 
his wife began to clear away the dishes, talking all the 
time. 

“Jimmy will lead you to the lane, sir. He knows 
the way blindfold, and it’s as well that he does, seeing 
how black the night is.” 

“Who is Jimmy Took?” asked Dick, lighting his 
pipe and straddling before the fire with his hands in 
his pockets. 

“The son of Arty Took the sexton, sir, and being so, 
is well up in ghosts. Some says as he’s got too many 
wits and some say not enough. But he’s a queer little 
chap, Mr. Hustings, as you’ll see when he comes. 
And such a reader.” 

“Oh! Studious is he? What does he read?” 

“Mostly them detective stories, sir,” Mrs. Webb 
paused in her clearing away to shudder. “I never did 
see such a child for horrors. Wants to be a detective 
and track down people to hang ’em. If he was a 
child of mine I’d slap that out of him, if it took years.” 

“Detectives are useful people, Mrs. Webb. But for 
them many of us wouldn’t sleep so soundly at night. 
So Jimmy is interested in this business?” 

“It’s bread and jam to him,” was Mrs. Webb’s 
homely metaphor, expressed emphatically, “never was 
there such a child for poking in odd corners.” 

“Child? How old?” 

“Sixteen, and with wickedness enough for forty 
years of age. That is”—the little woman took up the 
laden tray—“he’s not exactly wicked, as people call 
wickedness, for he doesn’t lie, or smoke, or swear, and 
keeps himself tidy enough, I will say that for him. 
But he’s—he’s—well—he’s touched. That’s what it is. 
There’s something as oughtn’t to be, about Jimmy.” 


HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 141 

When she left the room, Dick, with his hands still 
in his pockets, swayed steadily, back to fire, like a 
meditative elephant. He guessed that Jimmy was a 
lad unusually clever, and being so, was dubbed wicked 
and queer by dull-minded people, who object to any 
departure from the normal. Even Mrs. Webb—and 
she was no fool—looked askance at a boy who took a 
larger interest in larger things than did the com¬ 
monalty. Jimmy, evidently being original, had to 
endure the usual punishment of originality, which is 
always suspected and condemned by the ordinary 
person. Hustings was pleased that his good fortune 
should have brought him into contact with such an 
unusual human being. If Jimmy proved to be what 
he was reported to be—for the lawyer read between 
the lines—then he would be a useful helper. “And 
heaven only knows how badly I need a helper, 
muttered Dick, reflecting on the quagmire of doubt 
and perplexity, in which he was, so far, vainly strug- 
gling. 

“Jimmy Took, sir,” announced Webb, suddenly 
entering, with a boy close on his heels. 111 leave you 
to speak with him, sir, as I’ve to attend to customers 
in the tap-room. And Jimmy!” he fixed the boy 
with a terrific N.C.O. glare, “you do what Mr. Hust¬ 
ings here tells you: he being an officer, who don t 
take no back-talk, nor side-answers. What he says—- 
goes. D’jeer!” and with a smart salute to Dick’s 
departed dignity as a captain, the ex-soldier wheeled 
round with military precision, and departed. 

Jimmy looked after him with twinkling eyes, and 
then turned those same twinkling eyes towards Dick, 
evidently possessing a sense of humour. Hustings, 
who had expected from early information to behold 


142 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


and condemn an under-sized freak, was surprised at 
the astonishing good looks of the lad; so tall and 
slender and well-knit; so graceful in his every attitude 
and movement. Gypsy blood undoubtedly ran in his 
veins, for there was more than a suggestion of the 
Romany in his oval, clearly-cut face, olive-tinted skin 
and glossy black eyes. Also his feet and hands were 
small, his dark, closely-clipped hair, decidedly wavy, 
and his teeth gleamed as white as those of a young 
dog, between the crimson of his lips. Not even the 
well-mended second-hand clothes he wore could dis¬ 
guise him as a common village lad. He looked as 
limber and sinuous and gracefully dangerous as a pan¬ 
ther. “So you are Jimmy!” said Dick,, masking his 
surprise, for the boy—as he sensed—was a marvel of 
sharpness. 

“Jimmy Took, sir. And I hope, Mr. Hustings, that 
you will not take me at the valuation of Mr. Webb.” 

He spoke so carefully, and with such a refined accent, 
that the lawyer was more surprised than ever. “I 
shall take you for what you prove yourself to be,” 
he said, stiffly, “you speak well?” 

“My father, sir. He was a schoolmaster before he 
turned sexton. The war, Mr. Hustings. We are the 
dice of the gods, and they have shaken us into different 
positions during the last few years.” 

This picturesque description of post-war circum¬ 
stances, coming from such an unusual quarter, in¬ 
creased the lawyer’s interest. But for the pressing 
business on hand he would have probed the character of 
this unusual lad, forthwith. As it was—“Can you 
guide me straightly to this place?” 

“Easily, Mr. Hustings.” 

“It is a dark night and rainy, Mrs. Webb says.” 


HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 


*43 

“I am like a cat, sir: all places, all weathers are 
alike to me,” smiled the boy. 

Dick smiled also, struggled into his overcoat, put 
on his cap, and fumbled in his pockets to make sure 
that his electric torch was convenient. Then lighting 
his pipe, he glanced at the overmantel time-piece. 
“Nine o’clock. It is about this time that the voices 
are heard?” 

“The voice—there is only one—is heard at different 
times and on different nights. We may hear it this 
evening; we may not. Sometimes it cries for three 
nights in succession: again, no one hears it for weeks 
and weeks.” 

“A freakish ghost,” commented Dick with a shrug, 
“go ahead, Jimmy.” 

Man and boy passed out of the warm well-lighted 
inn, to find themselves in a rainy semi-gloom, for a 
late-rising moon glimmered occasionally through the 
storm-clouds. Jimmy was laughing to himself, and 
went on laughing, as he guided his companion by touch 
along the cobblestone street. “And the joke, boy?” 
asked Dick, smiling also, for the lad's merriment was 
infectious. 

“Your talk of ghosts, sir.” 

“Ah! Then you don’t believe in the supernat¬ 
ural?” 

“Times I do: times I don’t. In this case—no.” 

“It’s a trick, then?” 

“More than a trick, Mr. Hustings.” 

Halting abruptly* on the edge of the village, Dick 
whipped out his torch to flash a revealing ray. “What 
do you mean by saying that?” he demanded, as the 
boy’s vivid face sprang out of the darkness. “Out 
with it. Quick!” 


144 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


In the glare Jimmy’s head reared backward, menac¬ 
ingly, with the incredibly swift action of a striking 
snake. “If I told you, sir, you would be as wise as I 
am myself.” 

“I wish to be,” retorted Dick, dryly, “what is more, 
I intend to be.” 

The youth laughed with easy confidence. “That 
depends, Mr. Hustings. After you have heard the 
voice—that is if the voice speaks to-night—you can 
hear me. I didn’t talk to those bee-swarming hunters 
of ghosts. But I can talk to you and I will in my own 
time. You’re different.” 

“And you are a remarkable lad,” the older man 
assured the younger, as he switched off the light to 
stumble onward through the dismal night. 

“They call me a fool down here,” muttered Jimmy, 
bitterly. 

“More fools they,” commented the lawyer, more to 
himself than to his companion. Then, on the sudden, 
an episode of Scott’s Kenilworth story came into his 
mind: the fantastic tricks of Dickie Sludge when 
guiding Tressilian to Wayland Smith’s forge. Here, 
setting aside the grotesque looks of Flibberty-gibbet, 
was just such another unusual boy. Therefore it 
would be wise to keep a watchful eye on Jimmy Took, 
who was evidently a diamond smothered, or nearly so, 
in the stodgy clay of a stolid English village—and no 
rough diamond either. Some good use might be made 
of his good looks and quick wits. Hustings thought 
this but did not say this, owing to the needs of the 
moment. 

“Have we much further to go?” he inquired, as 
his guide elbowed him down a lengthy slope of watery 
mud. 


HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 


145 


“No. Here we stop to listen,” said Jimmy, letting 
go the lawyer’s arm, “not a pleasant post, sir. The 
lane is sunken and slushy with rain. Ah !”—he 
looked upward, as a pale radiance gleamed through 
the clouds—“the moon. Your luck holds, Mr. 
Hustings.” 

Dick did not know whether to be amused or angry, so 
disarming were Jimmy’s methods of social intercourse. 
Nevertheless, he deemed it advisable to assert his 
dominance, somewhat imperiously. “Hold your con¬ 
founded tongue, youngster, and allow me to listen for 
the voice—if there is a voice.” 

“We may hear it, we may not,” said Jimmy with 
a shrug of indifference, “the light is growing stronger,” 
he observed, casually. 

And so it was. Steady winds sweeping the rain- 
clouds from the face of the moon, now at full, permitted 
her cold white light to flood the depths of the haunted 
locality. An all-round glance conveyed the impression 
to ex-captain Hustings that he trod familiar ground,— 
the bottom of a Flanders trench, as muddy, as chilly, 
and as uncomfortable. On either side of him, almost 
within arm-reach, loomed sloping banks, rough with 
coarse grasses, tangled brambles and tall weeds, all 
streaming with moisture. From the topmost line of 
these, giant oaks shot skyward, bending over to inter¬ 
lace so closely as to make a veritable tunnel of the lane. 
But their withering leaves, showering down as the wind 
shook the branches, left the great tree so bare that the 
moonlight gleamed through a fanciful tracery of 
boughs, darkly silhouetted against the clear sky. 
The atmosphere of this sunken way with its skeleton 
roof—as Dick inwardly named it—was disturbing, 
shivery, uncanny. He could well understand why, 


146 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


with this and the ghostly happenings, the villagers 
avoided so damnable a neighbourhood. For a second 
or so he wished feverishly that it really was a front¬ 
line trench, echoing with the boom of guns. 

But there was no sound, save the swishing of the 
wind stirring the trees, and the faint rustle of constantly 
falling leaves. For what seemed to be centuries of 
dragging time, man and boy stood motionless, scarcely 
breathing, so intently did they harken for the expected, 
unexpected. It came at the end of league-long hours— 
a long, dreary wail, far away, high above, towards the 
termination of the lane it would seem. Dick jumped 
involuntarily, so despairing was the sound, and 
Jimmy grasped him by the arm. “That’s the be¬ 
ginning,” he breathed softly, “now for the-” 

Before he could finish his sentence the cry became 
articulate, shaping itself into long-drawn-out words. 
“Edgar! Edgar! Edgar!” came the lamentable 
voice, faintly through the steady rushing sound of the 
wind, “where are you?—Oh, my darling, where are 
you? Oh! Oh! Edgar! Edgar! Edgar!” and 
the crying died murmuringly into the distance, as if 
the mourner was wandering further and further away. 
Then again the half-silence shut down, broken weakly 
by the whispering wind and the rustling leaves, falling, 
falling, ever falling. Dick the sceptic felt his hair 
standing on end, ice strike through his wahn blood. 
Actual human beings, however dangerous, he could 
face, being war-hardened to numberless risks, but a 
ghost—“Oh, tosh,” he cried, shaking himself out of 
the momentary panic, “the dead don’t return. It’s a 
trick.” 

“And more than a trick,” Jimmy whispered for 
the second time. 



HEARD IN THE DARKNESS 


147 


“What is your explanation?” 

“I haven’t got any,” answered the boy bluntly, 
“all the same, Mr. Hustings, there are circum¬ 
stances—” he stopped short. 

“Connected with the bungalow?” asked Dick, read¬ 
ing his thoughts. 

“Yes—no—I am not sure. But I think-” 

“So do I,” broke in Hustings, resolutely, “and for 
that reason I am going to inspect the bungalow and 
interview Mrs. Jerr, straight away.” 

“Don’t say anything about me, Mr. Hustings.” 

“Why!” Dick who had stepped forward, turned 
back, “Aren’t you coming?” 

“No! I’ll wait for you here and explain myself 
later.” 

“Damn it,” said Dick, irascibly, “are you in the 
infernal business too?” 

“No, sir. But I mean to be. Go on, Mr. Hustings. 
It’s growing late and the old lady may be retiring to 
bed.” 

“How can I find the bungalow ?” 

“You can’t mistake it in the moonlight. It’s just 
at the end of the lane: on the left hand—within a 
white-fenced garden.” 

Dick, ’striking a match, consulted his wrist-watch. 
“Ten-thirty. H’m! Show over?” 

“Perhaps! Times, it repeats itself. I think—hark 
—there it is again,” and once more came the wailing 
cry, the mournful words, the sounds of agonized 
weeping, all gradually receding into distant silence. 

This time Dick listened critically, with fully con¬ 
trolled nerves. “If it is a trick, it’s jolly well done. 
And if Mrs. Jerr had anything to do with it, I’ll force 
her to explain how she works the oracle, and why?” 


148 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Mrs. Jerr!” Jimmy wagged his wise young head, 
“better be careful not to waken her suspicions, Mr. 
Hustings.” 

“Is that why you are not coming with me?” 

The youngster nodded, and sat himself down com¬ 
fortably upon a fallen tree-trunk. “Mrs. Jerr and 
Wu Ti call me a meddlesome brat.” 

Hustings looked at him searchingly, but the play 
of the shadow-branches over his face confused its 
expression, so that nothing could be learned. Dick 
wasted no questions, since time was precious, but 
immediately began to walk up the opposite slope of 
the sunken lane, ploughing his way steadily through 
the clammy mud. Before reaching the top he heard 
the voice for the third time, but paid no heed to the 
thrice-told tale. All he desired was to find the bunga¬ 
low, and this he did very speedily, for it confronted him, 
immediately he issued from the shadow of the trees. 
On the left, as Jimmy had said, was an attractive, red- 
tiled building, standing in a neat garden, which was 
encircled by a gleaming white-painted fence. 

Without hesitation Dick opened the gate, walked up 
the path, and rapped three times on the door. As 
lights glimmered through two windows, he assured 
himself that Mrs. Jerr had not yet retired. As by 
magic the third knock opened the door, and a China¬ 
man appeared. Dick stared. The man’s jaw was 
working up and down rapidly, but no sounds issued 
from his mouth. 


CHAPTER XI 


AN IMPORTANT CLUE 

For quite sixty seconds Hustings continued to stare, 
not so much at the blue blouse, white trousers and 
padded shoes of Wu Ti, as at the extraordinary move¬ 
ment of his jaw, which went on clicking wordlessly, 
like that of a snapping dog. Finally it stopped to 
reveal a tight-lipped mouth, grimly reticent. 

“Mrs. Jerr!” explained Dick, as the man asked a 
question with his oblique Mongolian eyes. “I wish 
to see her—about the ghost,” he added, carefully. 

Apparently Wu Ti was accustomed to such an in¬ 
quiry made by belated visitors, for he silently admitted 
the new-comer, conducting him along a narrow -pas¬ 
sage, and as silently ushered him into an over¬ 
heated, glaringly-lighted sitting-room. It was almost 
as crowded with shabby mid-Victorian furniture as 
Miss Danby’s stuffy parlour in the Fryfeld cottage, 
and, in addition to the illumination of a huge fire, there 
were at least seven lamps on brackets and tables and 
pedestals, burning brightly. Coming from the Far 
East, it was evident that Mrs. Jerr could not dispense 
with its heat and light, so adopted artificial means to 
supply the deficiencies of the English climate. She 
was seated close to the fire, in a deep arm-chair, knit¬ 
ting steadily, and looked up at her visitor through 
large horn-rimmed spectacles. “Another,” said Mrs. 
Jerr, in a quiet, rather husky, but composed voice, 
149 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


150 

“day and night they come. It is just as well that I 
have made up my mind to move/’ 

“You are going away?” asked Hustings, probing for 
information. 

“I said that I had made up my mind to move,” 
she replied, with a glance at his muddy boots and damp 
overcoat, “come nearer the fire and dry yourself.” 

“I must apologize for my late visit and for my 
disreputable appearance. But I will not come nearer 
the fire, thank you. This room is-” 

“They all say that,” interrupted Mrs. Jerr, antici¬ 
pating his remark, “but if you had lived in Hong-Kong 
as long as I have you would understand how I am 
chilled by my native climate. And Wu Ti—poor 
creature, he feels the cold even more than I do!” 
Then abruptly she asked, “Glass of wine, Mr. What- 
ever-your-name-is—piece of cake—cigarette—cigar?” 

“Pipe only, if you don’t object to smoking,” said 
Dick, producing his briar and wondering if Mrs. Jerr 
was as lavishly hospitable to all her visitors as to him. 

“My name is Hustings—Richard Hustings. I am a 
solicitor.” 

“And a Spiritualist,” murmured the old lady, 
softly. 

“By no means, I-” 

“Wait!” broke in Mrs. Jerr in her leisurely way, 
“I have to count stitches.” 

While she was doing so, Dick, ostensibly loading his 
pipe, surveyed her very keenly from under drooping 
eyelids. Sunken as she was in the deep arm-chair he 
could see little of her, but she appeared to be a barrel¬ 
shaped female, short and monstrously stout. Her face, 
what he could discern under the huge hom-rimmed 
spectacles, was nearly as small as that of Mrs. Grutch, 




AN IMPORTANT CLUE 


151 

but she possessed a truly surprising quantity of 
silvery hair, scarcely hidden by a lavender-ribboned 
lace cap with lengthy strings of the same hue. And 
this colour was also repeated in her voluminous silk 
dress; a fleecy shawl over her. heavy shoulders and a 
pair of shapeless woollen slippers completing her attire. 
Altogether, thought Dick, a harmless, tidy, somewhat 
eccentric old lady, who could not possibly have any¬ 
thing to do with the haunted lane. He judged her to 
be over seventy years *of age, although, in speech at 
least, she was uncommonly vigorous for one who had 
passed the three score and ten limit. He felt that he 
was insulting her by his suspicions, yet stayed where he 
was to ask such questions as would wholly allay these. 
Then he became aware that Mrs. jerr, assiduously 
counting stitches, was watching him stealthily. 
Immediately the young man saw something sinister 
in her homely looks. Mrs. Jerr had made a mistake 
in her work. 

She appeared to be unaware of her error. ‘‘Yes, 
Mr. Hustings. You were saying?” 

“That I am not a Spiritualist,” replied Dick, speak¬ 
ing as composedly as she had done, “but a client of 
mine is deeply interested in this Whispering Lane 
phenomenon, and requested me to investigate.” 

“Strange that your client should consult a solicitor 
about such a thing,” observed Mrs. Jerr, shrewdly. 

“Not so strange as you may think,” rejoined Dick, 
promptly, “it is better to have a sceptical investigator 
than a biased psychic lunatic.” 

“And you, I take it, are a sceptic, Mr. Hustings?” 

“Very much a sceptic. I believe that there is a 
physical explanation of this so-called super-physical 
business.” 


152 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“I wish you could give it to me then,” said the old 
lady, eagerly. “I want to be left in peace.” 

“But you are going away you told me.” 

“I am. What with the Voice and the many silly 
fools who come here at all times to question me about 
the Voice—as if I knew anything—I am quite tired 
of the whole business. As an old woman I want 
that rest I am not likely to get in Wessbury.” 

“You have heard the Voice?” 

“Well—er—yes,” admitted Mrs. Jerr reluctantly. 
“Of course, being a Bible Christian, I don’t believe that 
the dead return. Still I heard a voice purporting to 
be that poor creature, Mrs. Brine, crying for her hus¬ 
band, both in the lane and in this house.” 

“In the house? Did it—this supposititious ghost 
I mean—use the same words?” 

Mrs. Jerr nodded. “But they were not so clear in 
the house as in the lane.” 

“How do you account for it?” 

“I don’t account for it. I have more to do at my 
time of life than to meddle with such nonsense.” 

“Do you think it is nonsense?” 

“I call it nonsense, anyhow, Mr. Hustings. The 
thing is there, without doubt, and so far no one has 
explained its meaning reasonably.” 

“Is there an explanation?” 

“How do I know?” demanded the old lady, wrath- 
fully. “What a lot of questions you ask. I am tired 
of people always harping on the subject.” 

“Forgive me. But I wish to-” 

“Satisfy that client of yours,” finished Mrs. Jerr, 
meaningly. “Well then, tell your client to take this 
bungalow from Mr. Chane when I leave it, and then 
your client will know all that I, or anyone else, knows. 



AN IMPORTANT CLUE 153 

I am going away next week, or the week afterwards 
at the latest.” 

“My client is a lady,” ventured Dick, cautiously 
feeling his way. 

“Well?” inquired Mrs. Jerr, shortly. 

“A man who wishes to marry her is also interested 
in this business.” 

“Well?” 

“He said something about coming down here to 
search into the matter.” 

“Like the other fools. Yes?” 

“I thought he might have called to see you as I am 
doing?” 

“Oh, then he did come down, did he?” Mrs. Jerr 
continued to knit composedly. “Ah, well, he might 
have called or he might not. I see dozens of these 
nuisances, and no offence to you, Mr. Hustings.” 

“I can understand how you feel worried, Mrs. Jerr. 
But this Dr. Slanton-” 

The old lady’s needles suddenly stopped clicking, 
and she dropped her work with a sudden start. 

“Slanton? The man who has been murdered by 
that woman Danby in some Essex village?” 

“Fryfeld! Yes! But she did not murder him.” 

“Judging from the report of the inquest proceedings 
in the newspapers, it looks very like it,” Mrs. Jerr 
resumed her knitting and glanced keenly at the man. 
“What is the real object of your visit to me?” she 
asked sharply. 

“I have explained.” 

“Quite so. But have you explained truly? You 
spoke of this man in the present tense, as being engaged 
to Miss Danby: as saying that he intended to come 
down here to look into the Whispering Lane mystery. 


154 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Yet you know, and you know that from my reading 
of the newspapers I must know, he is dead. Why 
all this camouflage ?” 

Dick saw that the old lady was too clever to accept 
his decidedly twisted explanations, so blurted out the 
naked truth. “I am Miss Danby’s solicitor, and came 
down to look for evidence in her favour.” 

‘That’s better! But why look for evidence in a 
place miles away from the scene of the crime?” 

The lawyer reflected for a few minutes, wondering 
whether to be frank or reticent. He decided to take 
the former course, as what he knew now would be 
known to everyone when Miss Danby was brought 
before the magistrate. “Before his death in the wood 
Dr. Slanton used the word ‘Whispering.’ From 
inquiries I learned that he was a spiritualist, and that 
this phenomenon was exciting interest in spiritualistic 
circles. He told a lady who is a medium that he would 
come down here and investigate.” 

Mrs. Jerr nodded her satisfaction at this honest 
speaking, and knitted on calmly. “But—I under¬ 
stood from the newspaper report that Dr. Slanton was 
found dead in the ground of that woman Danby’s 
cottage ?” 

“So it was stated at the inquest. But afterwards 
Miss Danby told me that he became conscious for a 
moment—sufficiently so to utter the word.” 

“And then she strangled him.” 

“No!” declared Dick, positively, “she became afraid 
and ran away.” 

“So that is the woman Danby’s story. Very much 
in her favour when told by herself. I congratulate 
you, Mr. Hustings, upon the clever way in which you 
have linked up Fryfeld with Wessbury. But I don’t 


AN IMPORTANT CLUE 


155 


see what such linking up has to do with the murder.” 

“I fancy it has more to do with the murder than 
would appear,” said Hustings, in a dry tone, “this 
Whispering Lane business was in Dr. Slanton’s 
thought almost the moment before he died.” 

“That doesn’t prove the woman Danby’s innocence.” 

“To my mind it proves that Slanton was here some 
time or another.” 

“Maybe! I don’t deny that. But he was mur¬ 
dered in Fryfeld, not in Wessbury.” 

“It seems like it!” said Dick, with significant em¬ 
phasis. 

Mrs. Jerr peered at him searchingly through her huge 
spectacles, “I can’t say that I follow your reasoning,” 
she remarked after a pause, “however, it is your own 
affair and I can only hope that you will prove this 
wretched woman’s innocence.” 

“I may be able to if you will help me.” 

“Help you, man! How can I help you?” Mrs. Jerr 
stopped knitting and glared her utter astonishment. 

“By telling me if Slanton came down here,” and 
while saying this Dick produced the patched photo¬ 
graph from his pocket. “Do you know that face?” 

The old lady took the photograph, studied it closely 
then handed it back with a shake of her head. “No! 
If Dr. Slanton—I suppose this is a photograph of Dr. 
Slanton—came to the lane, he never came here. Yet 
one moment. Pull the bell,” she pointed to a thick 
silk cord dangling on Dick’s side of the fire-place. 
“Wu Ti may have seen him. Wu Ti sees many 
people I don’t.” 

“What does Wu Ti think of the business?” asked 
Dick, pulling the cord. 

“He thinks nothing about it, so far as I know. He 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


156 

is a very reticent person, is Wu Ti, and keeps his 
thoughts to himself like most of his countrymen.” 

Hustings nodded. This description coincided with 
his rapid judgment of the Chinaman. “What’s the 
matter with his jaw?” he asked suddenly. 

Mrs. Jerr laughed in her quiet way. “You noticed 
that. Poor Wu Ti. It’s a nervous affection connected 
with some ear-trouble. He is often-times unconscious 
that his jaw works up and down in that weird way. 
Sometimes he is, and then, of course, he checks him¬ 
self.” 

“It’s not a mere habit then ?” 

“Oh no. Something quite beyond his control.” 

Just as his mistress finished explaining Wu Ti’s 
ailment, the man himself glided into the room as silently 
as a shadow, and stood waiting orders, with his hands 
muffled in the long sleeves of his blouse. “Show him 
the photograph and ask him the question,” commanded 
Mrs. Jerr, serenely. 

Dick did both, but Wu Ti shook his head after a 
keen glance at the face of the dead man. “You might 
not have seen him in this house,” urged Dick, dis¬ 
appointed, “but in the lane—in the village?” 

“No! Me no see!” 

“Are you quite sure ?” inquired the old lady sharply. 

“Me no see,” repeated Wu Ti, phlegmatically. 

“Thank you,” said Hustings, despondingly, restor¬ 
ing the photograph to his pocket, “it seems to me that 
I am on a wild goose chase.” 

“Hope for the best, Mr. Hustings,” said Mrs. Jerr, 
kindly, “there may be something in your idea after all. 
I am sorry that I cannot help you. Excuse my not 
rising to say good-bye. Rheumatism, you know. I 
am a great sufferer.” 


AN IMPORTANT CLUE 


157 


“Please don’t apologize,” said Dick, accepting his 
dismissal, “it is I who should do that, for visiting you 
at so late an hour. I am obliged to you for your 
courtesy. By the way,” he took out his note-book and 
pencil, “give me your future address.” 

“What for?” asked Mrs. Jerr, sharply. 

“I may wish to see you again.” 

“There is no need. I cannot tell you anything 
more than I have told you. Still you can have my 
address. Why not? Until I find a new house, I 
shall stay at a London hotel. Let me see! Oh, write 
to my Bank—The Empire Bank”—and she gave a 
number and a street in the City, which Dick noted 
down—“anything I can do will be done willingly. 
Wu Ti!” 

In answer to her signal the Chinaman glided forward 
to throw open the door towards which Hustings moved, 
after bowing his farewell. Just as he was about to 
leave the room, Mrs. Jerr called a halt. “That young 
girl who gave evidence at the inquest.” 

“Miss Aileen More?” 

“Yes! I think that is the name. Is she mixed up 
in this business?” 

“No!” shouted Dick, furiously, and his eyes blazed. 

“Ah!” said the old lady, complacently, “you need 
tell me no more, young man. I can guess that she is a 
pretty girl with whom you are in love.” 

“I am engaged to marry Miss More,” he rejoined, 
shortly; both amazed and annoyed that this clever 
beldam should gage his feelings so accurately. 

“Good! Then be advised, and whether that woman 
Danby is innocent or guilty—and I think from the 
reported evidence she is the last, myself—get her out 
of such bad company.” 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


158 

“Miss Danby is Miss More’s best friend/’ rebuked 
Dick, stiffly. 

“The Lord help her then,” retorted Mrs. Jerr, 
piously, “it’s a mercy she has a decent lad like yourself 
to protect her!” and with a gracious nod she signified 
that the interview was over. 

Silently and softly Wu Ti guided the visitor to the 
door, down the neat garden path, and so far as the gate 
set in the gleaming white-painted fence. Dick walked 
out of the moonlight into the shadow of the lane and 
turned his head to see Wu Ti gliding back into the 
house. This disappointed him, as he had expected 
the man to watch him, although he could give no reason 
for such expectation. Both the Easterner and his 
mistress seemed to be fair and honest, concealing 
nothing, admitting everything with almost aggressive 
frankness. 

Yet Dick mistrusted both. Why, it was impossible 
for him to say. Nevertheless a vague suspicion per¬ 
sistently haunted his mind, that beneath the surface 
of things-as-they-appeared to be, lurked sinister 
things-as-they-really-were, which needed to be dragged 
from the depths if Edith Danby was to be saved. 
Wessbury and Fryfeld, distant as they were one from 
the other, were plainly connected by the word 
“Whispering.” He had proved that conclusively: 
but he had yet to prove the why and the wherefore of 
the connection. 

“I thought you were never coming,” drawled Jimmy 
Took, rising from the tree-trunk when Dick reached 
him, “found out anything, sir?” 

“No! Mrs. Jerr can’t explain this ghostly voice. 
Did you hear it again?” 


AN IMPORTANT CLUE 


159 


“Only once after you left me,” explained the boy, 
as the two climbed the slope to regain the village. 
“Wu Ti must have been disappointed,” he added with 
a sly glance at his companion, visible enough in the 
bright moonlight. 

“Wu Ti!” Hustings started and glanced round, in¬ 
quisitively, “what about him?” 

Jimmy answered the question by asking another. 
“Was he with you all the time you were with Mrs. 
Jerr?” 

“No. He came in for five minutes only, when our 
conversation was ending.” 

“Ah!” The lad drew a deep breath of satisfaction, 
“then it was Wu Ti who came down the lane.” 

“Down the lane? What was he doing?” 

“I can’t tell you. But shortly after you left me I 
heard someone squelching through the mud—coming 
from the direction of the bungalow. I thought it was 
you coming back, and like a fool I jumped up. The 
squelching stopped, and I saw a dark figure, far up the 
slope, dimly, of course, as there were so many shadows. 
When I heard the footsteps again the squelching was 
dying away.” 

“And you think the man was Wu Ti?” 

“Who else could it have been, sir? None of the 
Wessbury folk come here after darkness falls. And 
if the man had been another ghost-hunter he would 
have walked up to me to ask questions. It was Wu 
Ti sure enough. And I would like to know, as you 
would like to know, what Wu Ti was doing in the 
lane.” 

Dick nodded approvingly. “Wu Ti! Ha!” and 
he also drew a long breath of satisfaction. “Quite 


160 THE WHISPERING LANE 

so. I don’t trust Wu Ti—I don’t trust Mrs. Jerr.” 

“And,” chimed in Jimmy, softly, “you don’t trust 
me.” 

“So far as it is necessary, I do,” snapped out 
Hustings, gruffly. 

“No, sir. So far as you think it is necessary you do: 
and that means something more cautious. But, here 
we are at The Pink Cow,” said Jimmy, stopping be¬ 
fore the barred and bolted inn with its one glimmering 
window. “Late as it is I’ll come in to explain myself. 
It’s worth your while to hear me,” he added quickly, 
when Dick, worn out with his searchings, hesitated to 
agree. 

“Come in then,” invited the lawyer after reflection, 
and when the yawning landlord answered his rappings, 
told him that he would keep Jimmy in the parlour for 
some twenty minutes or so. “I can let him out myself, 
Webb.” 

Quite agreeable to this assumption of authority 
by an ex-officer, Webb asked one question only, before 
retiring, “Did you hear the voices, sir?” 

“Three times! Good-night! Come along, Jimmy!” 

When in the sitting-room, Dick turned up the lamp, 
flung off his top-coat, and sat down to question his 
guest. “Well, what is it?” 

“I shall put the thing in a nutshell, sir. Take me 
away with you.” 

“What?” Hustings stared at this abrupt demand, 
which sounded like a command. 

“I am tired of this back-water village, filled with 
stupid people,” cried Jimmy, passionately, “take me 
into wider surroundings where I can get a chance of 
using my brains. I know you can help me. And,” 


AN IMPORTANT CLUE 161 

ended the boy, emphatically, “I am quite sure that I 
can help you.” 

“How can you help me?” Dick watched the eager 
face, aglow with feeling. 

“Oh, the mouse can help the lion, sir. We have 
yEsop’s authority for that. Just you trust me with 
the real reason why you have come to Wessbury.” 

The boy’s perception was so uncanny that Dick was 
fairly taken aback. Still he deemed it wise to be 
cautious. “I gave my reason to Mr. and Mrs. Webb.” 

“You gave a reason, sir. Mr. Webb told me that 
you said a client of yours wanted to learn all about 
The Whispering Lane. But your real reason. Tell 
me. 

“Why should I,” denied Hustings, frowning at the 
lad’s persistence. 

“Because I can help you. And if I do, will you give 
me a chance to better myself? You can do so, if you 
will do so.” 

Dick reflected. He was more and more attracted 
by the boy’s dogged determination to obtain a place 
for himself in the sun. “I promise to help you.” 

Jimmy leaned forward with sparkling eyes, caught 
the older man’s hand and shook it warmly. “Thank 
you, thank you. And perhaps I can guess the reason 
you hesitate to tell me. It concerns your client?” 

“Go on,” Dick nodded, wishing to exploit the boy’s 
sharp wits. 

“Your client is a man?” 

Hustings remembered that he had told Webb other¬ 
wise. “Let us say it is a man.” 

“And he is missing. Perhaps,” the boy’s voice 
became a mere thread of sound, “perhaps he is dead.” 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


162 

Dick jumped up alive with curiosity. “Go on, 
go on, yes, he is dead.” 

“I thought so. And he was murdered hereabouts.” 

“Wrong. He was murdered at Fryfeld.” 

“The Slanton murder.” Jimmy jumped up in his 
turn. “I wondered if it might be so, but wasn’t sure. 
And this man, Slanton, wore—wore”—Jimmy clawed 
Dick’s arm, tremendously excited—“an oddly-shaped 
scarf-pin.” 

“Yes! Yes! The swastika, made of gold set with 
turquoise-stones.” 

The boy fumbled in his pocket and brought out an 
object, hurriedly, “I found that near Mrs. Jerr’s 
bungalow.” 

In the palm of his hand lay the turquoise swastika 
pin. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE UNFORESEEN 

Detective-Inspector Trant sat at his office desk, 
scribbling on the blotting-paper—scribbling aimless 
lines and circles, crosses and triangles, with monoto¬ 
nous persistence. Subconsciously he was an ideo- 
graphist—a prehistoric throw-back—accustomed to 
represent his ideas, absent-mindedly, by symbols; and 
these vague figures he was setting down interpreted, 
only too truly, his chaotic state of mind. Formerly 
convinced on the strongest of evidence that Edith 
Danby was guilty, he was now much less positive: 
and, being an excessively just man, the doubt troubled 
him greatly. He wished to be absolutely sure that he 
was right, yet somehow felt that he was wrong, al¬ 
though where and how he could not imagine. It was 
the attitude of the accused woman which muddled his 
thoughts so grievously. 

She was sick—so sick, that an order had been given 
to remove her to the Tarhaven Infirmary, where she 
now lay decaying into nothingness. The divisional- 
surgeon had reported two days previously that the 
prisoner was suffering from a particularly malignant 
form of cancer, which at any time might result in 
death. This being so, it was impossible to bring her 
before the magistrate, urgent as was the need. There¬ 
fore her 1 appearance in court was postponed indefinitely, 
since the surgeon was doubtful if she would ever 
163 


164 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


recover sufficiently to face the ordeal. It would seem 
that God was to be her judge, not Man. 

But all this did not trouble Trant so much as the 
woman’s continued insistence upon her innocence. 
While she had a chance of living he could well under¬ 
stand any denial likely to set her free. But, doomed 
as she was by a higher tribunal to a worse death than 
by hanging, it was difficult to comprehend why she 
should still refuse to acknowledge her guilt. Of course, 
she might be thinking of her post-mortem reputation. 
But, having no ascertainable relatives likely to suffer 
from the disgrace of her being hanged, this was scarcely 
a feasible explanation. Altogether the Inspector was 
woefully puzzled. If Miss Danby was innocent, who 
was the guilty party? No one could answer this 
vexed question—not even Trant, acquainted though he 
was, so far, with the ins and orfts of the case. And it 
was just that “so far” which baffled him, and caused 
his unrest. He knew much, but not all. Of that he 
felt assured. The poor man was a modern Aristides 
on the horns of a dilemma. 

Being in this uncomfortable frame of mind it may be 
guessed how heartily he welcomed the return of 
Hustings. That young gentleman suddenly appeared 
at the office door with a handsome lad looking over his 
shoulder. 

“Here I am, Inspector!” said Dick, briskly, “and 
this is Jimmy Took.” 

Masking his troublesome thoughts by assuming a 
severe official expression, Trant received the two in 
the traditional red-tape style. “I am afraid I cannot 
give you much time,” he said, gravely nodding that 
they should be seated. “I am overwhelmed with 
work.” 


THE UNFORESEEN 165 

“You will be still more overwhelmed when you hear 
what I have discovered.” 

“Oh,” Trant swung his chair round to face the 
speaker, looking both eager and relieved, “so it wasn’t 
a wild goose chase, altogether?” 

“It wasn’t a wild goose chase in any way,” re¬ 
sponded Dick grimly. “I have just returned from 
Wessbury, where I passed the night.” 

“Wessbury ?” 

“It’s an unconsidered village, near Chelmsford, 
eighteen odd miles from here.” 

“And this lad?” Trant eyed the slim, bright-eyed 
boy critically. 

“He’s a native of Wessbury. Father, once school¬ 
master, now sexton—having come down in the world.” 

“Why have you brought him to see me?” 

“Inspector Trant,” said Hustings, with twinkling 
eyes, “allow me to introduce to you the future Sher¬ 
lock Holmes of the C.I.D.” 

“If my luck holds,” murmured Jimmy, who was 
taking in his surroundings swiftly and sorting them 
into the pigeon-holes of his clever brain. 

“Oh, it will hold right enough,” said Dick catching 
the words, “you’re much too good to lose, youngster. 
Now then, Mr. Trant, before I tell, you tell.” 

The Inspector did not quite approve of this settling 
of the situation, but as Hustings was evidently bringing 
important news, sorely needed at the moment, he 
humoured him. “There is little to tell, save that Miss 
Danby’s appearance before the magistrate has been 
postponed, sine die ” 

“Eh—how’s that?” 

“She is in the infirmary, suffering from cancer. 
The doctors are doubtful if she will ever recover.” 


166 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Poor soul. She told me of her disease, but I did 
not think it was so bad as all that. I hope to clear 
her character before she goes west. That will, maybe, 
cheer her last hours.” 

“Can you prove her innocence?” asked Trant, 
dubiously. 

“I’ll leave you to judge, when I relate my doings. 
Meanwhile, Aileen-?” 

“She is still at the cottage with Jenny watching 
over her. Worried, na.turally, but quite well. I have 
permitted her to see Miss Danby.” 

“Good man!” Dick drew a breath of relief now that 
he knew Aileen was safe. 

“Your news—your news!” Trant was on tenter¬ 
hooks. 

“Ah, yes. Help me, Jimmy: fill in my gaps,” 
and Hustings fully explained his doings during the 
last few days, the boy putting in a word here and there. 
At the end of a meticulous narrative, the latter pro¬ 
duced the scarf-pin. “So now you know,” finished 
Dick, breathlessly, “and I hope you’ll let me smoke.” 

“Smoke away,” nodded Trant, looking at the tur¬ 
quoise swastika lying in the palm of his hand. “H’m! 
Did Slanton always wear this?” 

“So Aileen says. He told her it brought him luck 
and kept him safe.” 

“It did neither on the night he was murdered,” 
commented the Inspector, grimly, and stowed away the 
scarf-pin in a convenient drawer, “but if Aileen is 
sure of her facts, this is positive evidence that Slanton 
was in Wessbury, drawn hither, it would seem, by 
his desire to investigate this ghost-business. You 
have gone far afield to find evidence, Mr. Hustings.” 

“With success, you will perceive,” said Dick, dryly, 



THE UNFORESEEN 167 

“and Jimmy here can supplement the evidence of that 
swastika-pin. He saw Slanton.” 

“In Wessbury?” Trant stared at the boy, “How 
do you know that the man you saw was Dr. Slanton, 
and where did you see him ?” 

“He arrived by the seven o’clock bus from Chelms¬ 
ford, sir, and I recognized him, when Mr. Hustings 
showed me his photograph.” 

“Which I now return to you,” said Dick, passing 
along the article, “and the night when you saw him, 
Jimmy ?” 

“The sixth of October.” 

“But his body was found here on the seventh of 
October,” said Trant, pinching his chin, perplexedly. 
“How could the man have got to Fryfield?” 

“I can’t tell you, sir,” admitted the youth, candidly, 
“I can only say that he did not return to Chelmsford 
by the bus.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I watched him. You see, sir,” went on Jimmy, 
deliberately, “there were heaps of these ghost-hunters 
coming to Wessbury for the past few months, and I 
used to guide some of them to the lane, so I got into 
the habit of watching the bus. Some came and went 
the same evening; others stopped all night, either at the 
inn, or in someone’s house. I saw Dr. Slanton come,” 
ended the boy, emphatically, “but I did not see him 

go-” 

“He remained in Wessbury!” suggested the In¬ 
spector. 

Jimmy shook his head, “I asked at every house, 
after I picked up that scarf-pin, if he stayed in any 
one of them. But—no,” and again he shook his 
head. 


168 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Did you guide Slanton to the lane?” 

“No, sir. I only give my services when they are 
asked. As Dr. Slanton did not speak to me, but to 
the bus-conductor, when he inquired the way, I did 
not pay much attention to him. Only when I picked 
up the scarf-pin did I think that something might 
be wrong.” 

“Why did you think so?” argued the officer, 
sharply, and not approving of the lad’s aggressive 
confidence. 

“Because I noticed the queer shape of the pin, 
when he wore it in his necktie, and naturally wondered 
how he came to lose it where it was found. He went 
through the village about seven o’clock, and down The 
Whispering Lane. But he never came back. I 
watched every bus,” asseverated Jimmy, “but Dr. 
Slanton did not return in any one of them.” 

“He might have walked to the Chelmsford railway 
station ?” 

“Three miles, sir. Why should he have walked?” 

“H’m!” Trant packed away the photograph, 
long-side the scarf-pin, “You have a very suspicious 
nature, young fellow.” 

Jimmy laughed and coloured, “I think it is inborn, 
sir. I am always trying to learn the why and where¬ 
fore of things.” 

“Oh!” commented Trant, cynically, “and you have 
found-?” 

“Many things, which I prefer to keep to myself just 
now,” returned the youth with a composed air. 

“You must tell me everything,” commanded the 
Inspector, assuming his most formidable official 
frown. 

This did not intimidate Jimmy, who merely smiled 



THE UNFORESEEN 169 

amiably, “I can’t make four, out of two and two as yet, 
sir. When I do I’ll speak.” 

“He won’t go past that,” put in Hustings, with a 
shrug, “the young rascal has something up his sleeve.” 

“Then why not tell it?” demanded Trant, angrily. 

“For this reason!” Jimmy was firmly respectful, 
“I wish to become a detective.” 

“Pooh! You have been reading shilling shockers, 
my good boy.” 

“My favourite literature, sir. They are con¬ 
cerned with mysteries, and I am a lover of mysteries. 
And,” continued Jimmy in animated tones, “when I 
get a chance of solving a real-life mystery I don’t want 
to lose it.” 

“Very natural, Master Took. But only by telling 
me everything can you get it.” 

“I have told you all the facts, so far as I am 
acquainted with the facts. But what I deduce from 
them I tell no one, until I have satisfied myself that 
such deductions are correct.” 

“Rubbish!” Trant was as perplexed by this un¬ 
usual character as Hustings had been. “What can 
an inexperienced baby like you do in a matter which 
is puzzling older and wiser heads ?” 

Jimmy smiled slyly. “Out of the mouths of babes 
and sucklings-” 

“Pish!” the Inspector considered Dick’s report and 
the boy’s obstinacy for a moment or so, “I’ll go thus 
far,” he said at length, addressing the latter, ‘ you can 
come down with me to Wessbury and help with your 
local knowledge. This Whispering Lane the tur¬ 
quoise scarf-pin dropped near it—Mrs. Jerr and her 
Chinese servant. Yes, you will be useful to me in 
Wessbury.” 



170 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Will you give me a free hand, sir?” 

“Well—er—yes, within limitations. You are smart 
enough in your own conceit and may stumble upon 
something helpful.” 

“When will you go to Wessbury, sir?” inquired 
Jimmy anxiously. 

“To-morrow evening. I can’t get away before then. 
We can motor from here.” 

“If I may offer an opinion, sir, I should go down to¬ 
day.” 

“Impossible! Impossible!” 

“Or at least,” continued the youth smoothly, as if 
there had been no interruption, “wire to the Wess¬ 
bury policeman—Jinks is his name—to keep an eye 
on Wu Ti and Mrs. Jerr.” 

“And so arouse their suspicions, when they learn— 
as they may learn—that they are being watched,” 
said Trant, derisively, “no! no! I’ll take them by 
surprise, before they have time to concoct explanations. 
That is if there are any required. From what you and 
Mr. Hustings have told me, I see nothing suspicious 
in the couple.” 

“Neither do I,” chimed in Dick, suddenly, “all the 
same I am suspicious. I have what the Americans 
call—a hunch.” 

“Like your Whispering word hunch,” said Trant, 
lightly. 

“Yes, and that proved to be helpful,” retorted Dick, 
nettled. “It led me to Wessbury, where we have found 
evidence connecting that place with Fryfeld. Oh, 
Mrs. Jerr seemed to be fair and honest, I don’t deny. 
But Wu Ti going down the lane when I was engaged 
with her—Jimmy finding the scarf-pin near the 
bungalow! Eh, Inspector?” 


THE UNFORESEEN 


171 

'‘I’ll look into those matters when I go to the place/’ 
snapped Trant, tartly. 

“If there is anyone in the place to tell you,” breathed 
the boy, meaningly. 

“What’s that?” Trant turned on him, sharply and 
angrily. 

“This! In my opinion Mrs. Jerr and Wu Ti are 
going to run away.” 

“Next week, Jimmy,” put in the lawyer, “Mrs. 
Jerr said as much. And it is no running away, but a 
calculated and foreseen removal.” 

“Well,” said Jimmy, with a humility which thinly 
disguised sarcasm, “in the presence of older and wiser 
heads I must hold my tongue. But, if I had this case in 
hand, I shouldn’t lose four and twenty precious hours.” 

“You’d do a lot I have no doubt,” remarked Trant, 
rising to intimate that the interview was ended, and 
placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders, “See here 
young fellow, I have spoken to you more sharply than 
was needful, for this matter is bothering me con¬ 
siderably. But I think you’re a clever boy, and if you 
can help me with your young wits, as I think you can, 
why then, your foot is on the first rung of the ladder 
leading to the heights of your ambition. See!” and he 
gave Jimmy a friendly shake, whereat the lad flushed 
with pleasure. He had his secret doubts as to Trant’s 
perfection in detective doings, but all the same the 
officer was a personage, and praise from him was some¬ 
thing to be appreciated. 

When in the street Dick turned to his young friend, 
“Well, Jimmy, will you come to Ftyfeld as my guest 
for the night, or will you stay in Tarhaven?” 

“I’ll stay here, sir, if you don’t mind. There’s lots 
to be seen.” 


172 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“And lots of temptations to be led into,” said Dick, 
smiling, for he had no fear of the boy getting into 
trouble, shrewd as he was in spite of his youth. “Well, 
then, here are five pounds to see you through.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy accepted the treasury 
notes gravely. “I’ll repay you out of my first fees 
as a detective. Are you coming with the Inspector 
and me to-morrow, sir?” 

“No. My presence is not necessary. If it is, wire 
me to my office,” Dick gave the boy a card with the 
Lincoln’s Inn address of his firm. “Put your best foot 
foremost, Jimmy. Now’s your chance to gain your 
ends. Don’t lose it.” 

“Not me, sir,” said the boy with a grim look, 
astonishing on so youthful a face, and he swung away 
into the crowded High Street, as if he had been used 
to the hustle and bustle all his limited life. 

“There goes a lusus natures!” thought the solicitor, 
with a yawn, for the long journey and the long inter¬ 
view of the day had wearied him. Then he hired a 
taxi to take him home. 

Followed a sleep, a bath, a change of clothes, and 
later, an evening visit to the cottage. Aileen received 
him in the stuffy parlour, with a tired face and listless 
movements, but she brightened and strengthened when 
her visitor was ushered in by Jenny Walton. “Oh, 
I am glad to see you, Dick. I have been counting the 
hours for your coming,” she grasped both his hands, 
looking anxiously into his face. “Have you found out 
anything—is Edith safe—who is guilty—why was Dr. 
Slanton murdered?—and—and”—she stopped, pant¬ 
ing. 

Dick loosened his hands gently and placed her in an 
arm-chair. “One question at a time, dear. Don’t 


THE UNFORESEEN 


173 


get too excited, and waste what strength you have, 
which is less than I could wish,” and in his turn he 
looked anxious. 

“It’s Edith,” wailed the girl, the bright colour of 
her welcome dying out of her cheeks. “I have seen her 
and she is—she is—dying.” 

“Yes. I know,” Dick patted her shoulder gently. 
“Trant told me and, indeed, Miss Danby told me her¬ 
self when I saw her last.” 

“Why didn’t you let me know about the cancer?” 
cried Aileen, passionately. 

“I didn’t wish to worry you. Besides I never for a 
moment thought that she was ill enough to be removed 
to the infirmary.” 

“You should have told me. Worry! Nothing is a 
worry that I can do for Edith, as she is the best friend 
I have in the world.” 

“What about me?” Dick was distressed by this 
exclusion of himself. 

“Oh, you. I love you as you well know, for this is 
no time to pretend. But I love Edith also, in a dif¬ 
ferent way.” 

“Then there is your father—if he is alive?” 

“Oh my father, my father!” Aileen spoke im¬ 
petuously, bitterly, “Yes, he is alive, Dick. Since you 
have been away a letter has come from him.” 

“A letter!” Hustings was astonished, so unexpected 
was the information. 

The girl nodded. “Written from Paris, saying that 
he had arrived there from Germany, where he had been 
in prison, and that he would see me soon. It was a 
cold, business-like letter, just the kind my father would 
write.” 

“But I thought that he was-” 


i ?4 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Oh, there, there. Let us talk of something else— 
what have you been doing for instance? Later—in 
a day or so, I’ll tell you all about my father.” 

Dick looked puzzled. He had always believed that 
Aileen and her missing father were tenderly attached 
to one another. From the chilly way in which she 
referred to the reappearance of her missing parent, it 
would seem that such was not the case. Although 
anxious to learn more, the young man refrained from 
questions, since the girl obviously withheld her con¬ 
fidence. “I can wait!” said Dick, briefly, but feeling 
keenly the cold-shouldering of this reticence. 

Aileen nodded her relief, and pressed for explana¬ 
tions of his doings. “I do hope you have discovered 
something helpful,” she said, pitifully earnest. 

Sympathizing deeply with her anxiety, Hustings 
plunged into the middle of things; forthwith, repeat¬ 
ing word for word his report to the Inspector. Aileen 
listened silently throughout, only showing her appre¬ 
ciation of his energy by occasional nods and glances. 
When he ended by describing how Jimmy had melted 
away into the Tarhaven population, the girl drew a 
long breath. “I wish you had brought that boy over 
with you, Dick. I should like to ask questions.” 

“I doubt if he would answer any. Jimmy has a 
shrewd brain and a strong will of his own. Wild 
horses won’t drag the truth out of him until he makes 
up his obstinate mind to speak freely.” 

“Do you think that he knows the truth?” 

“I can’t offer an opinion. He may have a bee in 
his bonnet, or there may be method in his madness. 
Jimmy keeps himself to himself, very thoroughly.” 

“What do you think, Dick?” 


THE UNFORESEEN 


175 


“I think that we are blundering about in the dark, 
and until we see light, will continue to blunder. Un¬ 
doubtedly Slanton was in Wessbury on the sixth of 
October, and on the seventh was found dead in the 
wood outside, eighteen miles from that village. And 
with the return half of a Cornby to London ticket in 
his pocket. Make what you can out of that.” 

“Do you believe that Mrs. Jerr has anything to do 
with the matter?” 

“On the face of things-as-they-are, it would seem 
not. Yet Wu Ti is her servant, and Wu Ti—accord¬ 
ing to Jenny—haunts Old Wung’s dug-out. More¬ 
over the girl more than hinted that Wu Ti was Slan- 
ton’s enemy.” 

“And murdered him!” asserted the feminine in 
Aileen, jumping to conclusions. 

“If so,” argued the slower masculine nature, “why 
did he not strangle the man in Wessbury? You for¬ 
get that Slanton was alive when Miss Danby found 
him.” 

“Wu Ti may have brought him here and killed him, 
after Edith ran away.” 

“But why—why—why in the name of the high 
gods?” wailed Dick, clutching his whirling head. 

“He wished to implicate Edith.” 

“That the assassin desired to do so is clear enough. 
But Wu Ti? So far as we are aware, Miss Danby 
does not know the creature.” 

“She knew Dr. Slanton and he knew Wu Ti,” per¬ 
sisted Aileen, holding to her theory, “and if Edith 
would only tell me-” 

“There you are,” interrupted Hustings, testily, “I 
think, and I have always thought from the first, that 



176 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Miss Danby can hand us the key to the riddle. But she 
won’t, for some inexplicable reason: not even to save 
her life.” 

“Possible death by being hanged; certain death 
from cancer. What chance has she, poor darling?” 
said Aileen sadly. “And I think-” 

Hustings could not endure the ever-circling argu¬ 
ments any longer, and rose in a hurry. “Don’t think, 
my dear girl. Thinking on insufficient premises only 
muddles things, more and more. Better wait for the 
return of Trant and Jimmy from Wessbury with 
further information.” 

“But if they find nothing?” Aileen rose also and 
despairingly. 

“They are bound to find something. Slanton’s 
death is connected with Wessbury—with that Whis¬ 
pering Lane business, I fancy. When the mystery of 
that is solved—and it is a mystery from my own hear¬ 
ing—then the truth will come to light. Mean¬ 
while”—Dick picked up his overcoat and cap, tumul¬ 
tuously. “I’m going home to soak myself in ten hours 
of sleep. You do the same.” 

“I can’t sleep with all this on my mind. How can 
you think so?” 

“My dear!” Dick, taking her gently by the shoul¬ 
ders, looked with tenderness into her sad and tearful 
eyes, “you must make an effort to sleep. Only by 
keeping your health and your self-control can you help 

your friend. And—and-” he gulped, pushed the 

girl roughly from him and made for the door. 

Aileen followed him with a bewildered cry. “Dick! 
Dick! Dick!” 

“To-morrow—I’ll come again to-morrow,” mumbled 
the flying lover, and fairly ran away from this too 




THE UNFORESEEN 


1 77 


perilous neighbourhood. Another moment of dalli¬ 
ance, and he would most surely have swept her into 
his arms for endless kisses. “I am only flesh and 
blood/’ groaned Dick striding homeward. “Why can’t 
she remember that, hang her—I mean bless her, bless 
her. Oh, damn!” 

Hustings did not visit the cottage next day as prom¬ 
ised. To love a girl and yet keep at arm’s length from 
the girl was much too tantalizing a situation for so 
hot-blooded a young man. He wrote a note, apolo¬ 
gizing for his flight on the plea of over-anxiety for 
his client, and said that he would come again when 
possessed of fresh information. Then he went up, 
as usual, to his office, cursing the world at large and 
his own luck in particular, to devote himself to dry- 
as-dust work, in the hope of subduing the torments of 
unfulfilled passion. And so determined was he to keep 
all unruly feelings well under control, until all barriers 
were removed, that he lingered at his desk long after 
the clerks had departed. This honesty of purpose 
turned out to be for the best, else he would not have 
received an important telegram until the following 
morning. Just as he was switching off the lights, 
somewhere about eight o’clock, the wire arrived. It 
was concise, and very much to the point, running thus: 
“They have cleared out. What did I say? Jimmy.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE LOST TRAIL 

Hard-earned experience had taught Hustings the 
needfulness of at least four things, requisite to keep 
his body well-tuned and alert, if thoughts were to be 
clearly conceived and perfectly translated into useful 
actions. Regular meals, judicious exercise, ample 
sleep, and what the poet calls “well-judged idleness” 
were the apples which he had so far gathered off the 
Tree of Knowledge. On reading Jimmy’s astonishing 
telegram, an earlier impulse urged post-haste travelling 
to Wessbury, for immediate verification of its con¬ 
tents, but a later one advised delay, amusement, and 
rest, before dealing with further vexatious matters. 
“The more haste, the less speed!” murmured Dick, re¬ 
calling Bender’s proverbial philosophy with a wry 
smile. 

In this reasonable frame of mind, the harassed 
young man went to his club, where he always retained 
a room, changed into evening kit, enjoyed a belated 
dinner, and spent a lazy hour at the nearest music-hall, 
where no thinking was required to follow the light¬ 
some entertainment. Such wise philanderings with 
pleasure brought him a next-morning reward, for he 
stepped into the ten-thirty train to Chelmsford with 
a brain well swept of theoretical cobwebs. Cool- 
headed, clear-minded, and self-mastered in every way, 
he was thus ready to consider further problems. The 


THE LOST TRAIL 


179 


first of these was propounded to him by Inspector 
Trant, almost before he descended from the bus at 
Wessbury. “I got your wire and came to meet you, 
Mr. Hustings,” burst out the officer immediately, “the 
boy's gone.” 

Dick looked, as he felt, puzzled, “I thought Mrs. 
Jerr and her servant had gone,” he remarked, drawing 
Trant aside. “Jimmy sent me a wire last night.” 

“Hang that youngster. He will go and do things 
on his own.” 

“You gave him a free hand, remember,” Dick re¬ 
minded him. 

“Within limitations, Mr. Hustings; within limita¬ 
tions.” Trant was fuming, “But here he sends you 
a wire without consulting me, and now goes off on 
his own.” 

“Is he chasing the fugitives?” 

“I don't know: he said nothing, but just dis¬ 
appeared.” 

“When did Wu Ti and his mistress go?” 

“Yesterday afternoon or early last evening,” 
growled the inspector, gloomily, “it is impossible to 
fix the time. All I can learn is that they did not get 
away from here by any bus; nor did they board any 
train at Chelmsford. I arrived in this place at seven 
o’clock last night and made the boy guide me im¬ 
mediately to the lane, afterwards to the bungalow. I 
heard nothing in the lane, and found no one in the 
house. This morning it was the same, for although 
I have searched everywhere, there is no sign of that 
infernal old dame or her Chink. Oh, they’ve gone, 
sure enough.” 

“Where?” 

Dick was asking himself this question, but Trant, 


i8o 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


overhearing, thought that it was addressed to him and 
fired up. “How do I know, Mr. Hustings? Would 
I be here, wasting time with you, if I did know? 
Come along to the inn. I have sent for that con¬ 
founded brat’s father, who may be able to explain 
things.” 

While the two walked up the cobblestone street 
to The Pink Cow, Dick very wisely held his tongue, 
easily conjecturing the reason for Trant’s unusual heat. 
The man was mortified that he had neglected Jimmy’s 
warning, and his pride was wounded by the lad’s per- 
cipience. However, being a just man, he swallowed 
that pride and blurted out an apology at the inn door. 
“It’s my own fault, Mr. Hustings, for I should not have 
been above taking a hint. The boy is clever and well- 
worth listening to. But I suppose old dogs don’t like 
being taught new tricks by young puppies.” 

“I sympathise,” Dick nodded, comprehendingly, “it’s 
a case of the younger generation knocking at the door. 
Eh?” 

“Something of that sort. Unless”—Trant spoke de¬ 
liberately—“unless, I say, sir, this youngster is double¬ 
crossing us.” 

“Nonsense! He told me, and he told you, that he 
suspects the couple. That alone should assure you of 
his honesty.” 

“I don’t know, Mr. Hustings. After all, the boy 
knows much he won’t let out.” 

“Whatever he does know is not being kept back to 
shield this woman,” retorted Dick, heatedly, “I’ll take 
my oath that Jimmy’s a white boy.” 

“If he is, why hasn’t he shown up this morning?” 

“Perhaps his father can explain. Oh, good morn¬ 
ing, Webb.” 


THE LOST TRAIL 


181 

“Good morning, sir,” replied the landlord, who had 
approached quietly during the conversation, “Mr. Took 
is waiting for you two gentlemen in the parlour,” a 
piece of news which sent Trant hurriedly into the 
house. Hustings was about to follow when Webb de¬ 
tained him: “You’ve heard the news, sir?” 

“About that couple skipping? Yes!” 

“Don’t see why there should be any skipping about 
it, sir,” argued Webb, referring the matter to Dick’s 
common sense. “The old lady always said that she was 
going to clear out, because of being worried by this 
ghost-business. And there wasn’t no harm about her, 
so far as I know. But that blinking Chink, sir! 
I never did trust him, and now he’s gone and stolen 
my dog.” 

“Your dog?” 

“An Airedale, I kept in the yard. Pedigree pup I 
wouldn’t have taken twenty quids for. Chained him 
up and fed him last night, and now he’s gone.” 

“Why do you suspect Wu Ti?” 

“ ’Cause he offered three times to buy him, saying as 
the old lady was afeared of burglars. ’Course I told 
him to go where he’ll go in the long run, and now he s 
been and stole him. If ever I lay hands on that 

blasted heathen I’ll-” here followed a lurid threat, 

interspersed with adjectives, ending with an apology 
for going off the deep end. 

“Have you told the police?” questioned Dick, ignor¬ 
ing this wordy emotion. 

“Police!” Webb looked disgusted, “why yes, sir. 
Leastways the only cove of the breed hereabouts. 
And a fat lot of good he is. Says he’s busy with 
more important matters than hunting for my tyke. 
And what are they, sir?” the mans face lighted up 



THE WHISPERING LANE 


182 

with curiosity, “what’s that Inspector bloke nosing 
round here for along o’ Jinks?” 

“It’s The Whispering Lane business,” explained 
Hustings, reservedly. 

“Waste o’ time, sir. Heaps and heaps of them 
spirit-merchants have been poll-prying themselves sick 
without getting a sniff.” 

“The police may be more fortunate,” was Dick’s 
reply, and he passed along the passage into the parlour. 

Here he found the Inspector conversing with a tall, 
thin, sallow-skinned man, who looked very much the 
schoolmaster he had been, and very little the sexton 
he now was. He had the face and stoop, and refined 
accent of the pundit caste; but there were traces of 
the Romany blood in him as in his son. Iron-grey 
hair, moustache and imperial, and melancholy dark 
eyes, gave him a kind of Charles the First appearance. 
“/ can tell you no more, Mr. Inspector,” he was saying 
when the lawyer entered. 

Taking no notice of the new-comer, Trant proceeded 
to examine his man. “You say that your son went 
to bed at eleven last night, after I dismissed him?” 

“Yes!” 

“And this morning you found him gone when you 
went at six o’clock to waken him!” then in response 
to a nod from Mr. Took, the Inspector continued, 
“Did the boy say if he was going anywhere?” 

“No. He was excited about this case and told 
me that you were good enough to let him work under 
you.” 

“He won’t work under me long if he goes on behav¬ 
ing so independently,” said Trant, grimly. “Do you 
approve of his being a detective?” 

“Why not, Mr. Inspector? Where the treasure is, 


THE LOST TRAIL 


183 


there will the heart be. James is born to your trade. 
As a schoolmaster I hold that a boy should follow his 
bent, provided it is honest.” 

“You are not a schoolmaster now, Mr. Took?” in¬ 
quired Dick, sympathetically. 

“Younger men have ousted me from the pedagogue’s 
throne,” replied the other, smiling sadly, “and in these 
bleak days I must earn my bread as I best can.” 

Trant got impatiently on his feet, irritated by this 
side-tracking. “Can you swear, Mr. Took, that you 
don’t know where your son is?” 

“I can most certainly. But, if I may venture an 
opinion-” 

“Yes! Yes! Goon.” 

“I think James is following up this matter in his 
own peculiar way.” 

Dick assented. “More than that, I rather think 
that he is following up our runaways with a dog,” 
and he repeated Webb’s tale of his missing Airedale. 

Here agaii\ Jimmy was proving himself more far- 
seeing than the Inspector. “Why couldn’t he ask 
Webb if he could borrow the animal?” asked Trant, 
half angry, half pleased with the boy’s alert doings. 

Took smiled faintly. “That is like James: he 
never tells anyone of his plans until he sees the result 
of his plans.” 

“But surely you don’t approve of his stealing 
another man’s dog.” 

“Not stealing, Mr. Inspector. James has only 
borrowed the animal in an emergency. I shall explain 
matters to Mr. Webb.” 

“No! No! Say nothing,” cried the officer, 
sharply, “I don’t want my business here known at 
present.” 



184 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“It isn’t,” said Dick, “Webb thinks it is just The 
Whispering Lane affair.” 

“Let him and everyone else think so. Mr. Took, 
what do you know of this woman?” 

“Nothing, or next to nothing, Mr. Inspector,” the 
ex-schoolmaster halted at the door, “she lived quietly 
and troubled no one. Nor did the Chinaman. James 
is likely to know more than I. He worked in Mrs. 
Jerr’s garden for a time.” 

Trant nodded a dismissal, and when alone with 
Hustings, turned to him frowningly, “What did I tell 
you? That youngster does know something.” 

“Probably! But you may be sure that the some¬ 
thing will be used in our favour. If I were you I 
should allow Jimmy to follow his own fancies. He’ll 
come back with important news: you’ll see.” 

“He certainly has his wits about him,” admitted 
the Inspector, with reluctant admiration. “I’ll let 
him use them as you suggest. Meanwhile I am going 
immediately to Chelmsford for a warrant to search 
that bungalow.” 

“Wisely said. And later on you might get one to 
hunt through Old Wung’s dug-out. Yes! Remem¬ 
ber what I told you of Jenny Walton’s statements. 
Wu Ti goes there to smoke opium. Wu Ti is the 
man we want, since he will be able to supply all infor¬ 
mation about Mrs. Jerr. And,” concluded the young 
lawyer, impressively, “Jenny said that Wu Ti had a 
grudge against Slanton.” 

Trant approved of this suggestion, and accepted it 
willingly. “One thing at a time, Mr. Hustings. I’ll 
look over this bungalow first,” and he went off to catch 
the bus to Chelmsford. 

Dick remained where he was to smoke and cogitate. 


THE LOST TRAIL 


i85 


It was obvious that, in some inexplicable way, Mrs. 
Jerr was concerned in the crime. Wu Ti was the 
enemy of Slanton, and Wu Ti was the servant of Mrs. 
Jerr: thus linking the London opium den with Wess- 
bury. Also Wessbury was connected with Fryfeld, 
by the man’s scarf-pin, picked up in the former place 
—the man who had been found dead in the latter. 
But how Slanton had got to Fryfeld from the eighteen 
miles distant Wessbury, it was impossible to say. 
The return half-ticket suggested that he had travelled 
by train from Liverpool Street, intending to go back. 
But in that case how came he to be mutilated and 
drugged? Also Jimmy had stated that he had seen 
no sign of Slanton leaving the village by any one bus. 
This being so, Dick concluded—and it was the sole 
conclusion at which he could arrive—that the man had 
been drugged and branded in Wessbury: afterwards 
being taken to Fryfeld, that Miss Danby might be 
implicated. “But how?” Dick asked himself. 

Ten minutes after it flashed across his mind that 
Mrs. Jerr and her servant had likewise dispensed with 
bus and train, which implied that they had other 
means of transport at their disposal. Of course they 
might have walked; but the old woman, by reason of 
her weight and age, was ill-fitted for pedestrianism. 
Moreover, although she had rented a furnished bunga¬ 
low, it was probable that she and Wu Ti possessed a 
fair quantity of personal baggage, which could not be 
left behind, yet which could not be carried away by 
hand. Dick, fumbling thus at his problem, decided to 
apply to Mr. Took for its solution. Since Jimmy had 
worked in the bungalow garden, Jimmy’s sharp eyes 
had undoubtedly seen all that could be seen, and he 
might have dropped his father a hint. 


186 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


So Hustings asked the way to the man’s cottage \ 
learned from an elderly housekeeper that he was pro¬ 
fessionally engaged, and forthwith betook himself to 
the churchyard. Here he found Took digging a grave 
in the shadow of the square Norman tower and lost 
no time in satisfying his curiosity. “When your son 
was working for Mrs. Jerr, did he see about the place 
any motor-car, horse and trap, push-bike, motor-cycle, 
or even an aeroplane?” 

Took paused to rest his hands on the spade and 
think, by no means surprised by the abrupt question, 
with its mention of all possible means of transport. 

“James saw a motor-cycle!” he remembered after 
reflection. 

“Ha! With a side-car?” 

“Yes! That Chinese servant was accustomed to 
take out the old lady in it, for occasional airings. 
Never through the village though: always across the 
common at the back of the bungalow.” 

“Good egg!” Dick nodded hasty thanks for useful 
information, and walked away, satisfied that he had 
learned how Slanton had been transported to Fryfeld, 
how Wu Ti and his mistress had left Wessbury. 

After a hurried luncheon, Dick spent the greater 
part of the afternoon in exploring the locality which 
had to do with the business in hand. The tunnel of 
the sunken lane could scarcely be called one now, so 
stripped were the overhanging boughs of leaves. 
He glanced upward at the bare oaks, sideways at the 
tangled banks, wondering how the marvel of the cry¬ 
ing voice had been brought into being. It was 
certainly a trick. He thought so, Jimmy thought so; 
but how that trick was managed no one knew, no one 
could even imagine. However no tormented ghost 


THE LOST TRAIL 


187 


was terrorizing now, so the young man tramped 
stolidly down the descent, scrambled up the ascent to 
pause beside the bungalow. There it stood, ringed 
by its white fence: peaceful and silent amidst barren 
flower-beds, tiny lawns of brilliant green, and cluster¬ 
ing shrubs, neatly trimmed. Innocent enough in out¬ 
ward seeming, yet to Dick, suggesting sinister possi¬ 
bilities. Slanton had not been murdered there; but 
Slanton had been drugged and branded there. He was 
sure of this, insufficient as was the evidence to think 
thus positively. 

Walking on, Hustings inspected the spot which 
Jimmy had described as that where he had picked up 
the turquoise swastika. This was a stone’s throw from 
the bungalow, immediately behind it, at the curve of 
an unmade-up road, which straggled crookedly across 
the common. Probably, when the unconscious Slanton 
had been packed into the side-car, clumsy, maybe 
hurried movements had shaken the pin from his neck¬ 
tie. And then—what then? Dick stared far away 
into the vast distance, where dim patches of woodland 
were scattered along the horizon. In his mind’s eye 
he saw shudderingly, the motor-cycle with its dreadful 
freight, swaying and bumping over the clayey rutted 
road, on its eighteen miles journey to implicate an 
innocent woman. But was she really innocent? He 
thought so, he had stated so, more because he wished 
for Aileen’s sake to think so, than because he was 
absolutely certain. One moment he believed, only to 
disbelieve the next. What linked Slanton to Edith 
Danby? What connected Mrs. Jerr with Slanton? 
How did the Chinaman come into the matter and with 
what news would Jimmy Took return? One question 
after another presented itself for answer, but to none 


188 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


could he find any reply. Hustings thought of those 
marine plants floating apparently disconnectedly on the 
watery surface, yet solidly connected in the depths. 
He would have to go down and down and down to get 
at the one cause creating these many scattered effects. 
But how he was to dive; how to bring up the treasure 
of knowledge he coveted, was not clear. 

Walking and thinking, searching and watching, Dick 
covered an immense track of country that afternoon, 
in quest of Jimmy and the dog. Undoubtedly, the 
fugitives had escaped on the motor-cycle— Mrs. Jerr 
in the side-car, Wu Ti racing the machine. And the 
Airedale in leash, Jimmy at his heels, was following a 
trail which Dick, being dogless, could not pick up. 
For hours he wandered fruitlessly, and retraced his 
steps, shortly after sun-down, to find signs of occu¬ 
pancy in the bungalow. Trant, brandishing an official¬ 
looking paper was expostulating at the door with a 
short, slim, neatly-built man, who was refusing him 
admission. “It is monstrous,” he was saying in a 
light, rather weak voice, “you have no reason to sus¬ 
pect my tenant: no right to search my house.” 

“I have the right of this warrant,” retorted the 
Inspector with a flourish of the document, “and that 
right I intend to exercise. Ah, Mr. Hustings, you 
arrive in the nick of time. As a solicitor you may be 
able to convince Mr. Chane that the law is with me. 
Mr. Hustings, Mr. Chane!” he waved his hand by way 
of introduction. 

Dick surveyed the owner of the bungalow, this 
grey-tweed-clothed, light-voiced, dapper little fellow, 
elderly and frail. His voice somehow explained his 
looks. Light hair, light complexion, light eyes of 


THE LOST TRAIL 


189 


shallow blue, Mr. Simon Chane suggested an airy 
elfin changeling, too trifling to be taken seriously. 
Still, he was definitely serious at the moment, his fair 
skin flushed, his pale eyes brilliant with anger, as he 
blocked the doorway. “My house is my castle,” 
piped this butterfly person, wrathfully. “Dora is a 
dead letter now that the war is over. You can’t and 
you shan’t enter.” 

“I take it that you are a law-abiding citizen, Mr. 
Chane,” said Dick, quietly. 

“Of course; and for that reason I stand on my 
rights.” 

“If we discuss matters I think you will exercise 
them in the cause of justice.” 

“I am willing to do that if you and this officer can 
show cause. But until you do, I stand here!” and 
the crabbed little fellow spread his arms from jamb to 
jamb to prevent entrance. 

The Inspector smiled dryly, “I can walk in on the 
authority of this warrant, and any court will uphold 
my action. But, as I never create unnecessary trouble, 
I will state my reasons: the more so, Mr. Chane, as I 
wish you to give me certain information,” and he then 
related succinctly, so much of the case as had to do 
with Mrs. Jerr’s possible entanglement therein. 

Chane listened intently, his shallow eyes fixed 
throughout on the speaker’s face. “I gather then,” 
said he when Trant ended, “that you suspect Mrs. 
Jerr of having seen this man, Slanton, when he came to 
investigate this ghost business.” 

“Yes! She must have seen him. A scarf-pin, 
worn by Dr. Slanton, was found on the road behind this 
bungalow.” 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


190 

“That doesn’t prove Slanton’s presence in the 
house,” retorted Chane, contemptuously. “Mrs. Jerr 
denied all knowledge of him, I understand.” 

“She did, and to me,” put in Hustings, quickly. 

“Then you may take it that she spoke truly. Mrs. 
Jerr is an honest woman.” 

“And her servant—what about him?” 

“I know nothing so far as Wu Ti is concerned,” 
rejoined Chane, coldly. 

“Why did he and his mistress run away?” de¬ 
manded the Inspector. 

“I see no running away about their departure, 
Mrs. Jerr told me several times that she might leave at 
any time, since these ghost-hunters so worried her. 
She wrote me yesterday of her intention to give up the 
house. I received the letter by the mid-day post in 
London, and therefore came down to look after my 
property,” the little man produced a letter from the 
pocket of his grey tweed sports-coat. “There it is. 
You don’t want to see the notes she enclosed: her 
rent, gentleman, honestly paid at the last moment, to 
the last farthing.” 

Trant, with Dick looking over his shoulder, skimmed 
the short epistle, which simply stated that the writer 
was worried into leaving Wessbury sooner than had 
been her intention. The last straw was the intrusion 
of a man called Hustings, who bothered her with fool¬ 
ish questions, and she refused to submit further to such 
persecution, “Herewith I enclose my quarter’s rent,” 
ended the letter abruptly, “with thanks for your 
courtesy. Truly yours, Selina Jerr.” 

“May I keep this letter?” asked the Inspector, fold¬ 
ing it up. 

“Certainly, and now that you have explained, you 


THE LOST TRAIL 


191 

can search the house!” Chane stood aside as he spoke, 
“you will find nothing incriminating, I’ll swear.” 

“What do you know of Mrs. Jerr?” 

“Nothing, or next to nothing. I advertised my 
bungalow to let furnished. She answered my adver¬ 
tisement, saying that she was in search of a restful 
home.” 

“But her references?” 

“I asked for none, as she paid the first quarter’s 
rent in advance. Good enough for me, as I didn’t 
wish to be bothered with business details. Come in.” 

The Inspector promptly obeyed, but Dick refused to 
join in the search as he was both hungry and tired. 
There was no need for him to be the inconvenient 
third, as the officer was quite capable of managing 
this strictly official business, solus and alone. He 
therefore returned down the lane and up the lane to 
bring up at The Pink Cow. There he found Mrs. 
Webb, pleasantly fluttered, watching for him at the 
door. “A young lady is waiting for you, sir.” 

Dick, on the point of entering, stopped, and stared, 
wholly taken aback by this very unexpected intelli¬ 
gence. “A young lady!” he repeated, mechanically. 

“Miss Aileen More, sir. She says that you are 
expecting her.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 

The news of Aileen’s arrival in Wessbury was both 
incredible and unwelcome, but true enough, as the 
young man found on entering the parlour. Here the 
girl was seated before the fire, looking wan and anxious 
and worn, as she rose tumultuously to greet him with a 
torrent of disjointed sentences. “Oh Dick! Dick! I 
do want to know things. I just had to come here. 
I couldn’t help myself. You ran away from Fryfeld. 
I am sure you are keeping something from me. I want 
to know the best, the worst, everything. What is 
it? What is it? Tell me! Tell me!” she stumbled 
forward to seize the lapels of his coat and shake him 
weakly. “Oh I shall go out of my mind if you don’t 
tell.” 

Disengaging her hands very gently Dick replaced 
her in the chair, “Darling,” he coaxed, kneeling beside 
her with soothing caresses and persuasive words, “you 
are overwrought. There is nothing to fear: nothing. 
Everything is going on capitally. In time the truth 
will be known.” 

“Are you sure—sure?” 

“I am sure,” lied Dick bravely, to quiet the storm. 

“And—and Edith will be—be safe?” 

“Of course. There! There!” he dried her eyes 
with his pocket-handkerchief, and rose quickly as the 
temptation to kiss her assailed him. “You need food 
192 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


193 


and rest, Aileen. I’ll tell Mrs. Webb to hurry up 
dinner, and-” 

“Dinner! As if I could eat anything, with Edith— 
Edith-” she broke down. 

“You must. Do be sensible 1” and he moved 
towards the door. 

“Now you’re leaving me, just as you left me at 
Fryfeld,” sobbed Aileen, who was sufficiently unstrung 
to be all the woman. 

“My dear,” said Dick, desperately, and keeping well 
away from this attractive, exasperating, delightful, 
annoying angel, “I’m only a man.” 

“Then why don’t you help me?” 

“Oh, Lord, am I not doing my best?” cried the 
badgered lover, too amazed at this unjust question to 
consider woman’s protean capabilities. 

“I suppose you are, though you aren’t!” wailed 
Aileen, twisting his handkerchief between her fingers, 
and continuing to contradict herself lavishly. “Oh, 
you are too interested in all this bother to trouble 
about me. It’s hard*—very hard, although you’re 
quite right. I want it proved that Edith didn’t do 
what she didn’t do, poor dear, whatever you may say. 
So like a man, though I’m sure I don’t care. Still 
you might?” 

“Might what?” almost shouted Dick in a maelstrom 
of bewilderment. 

“Oh, if you don’t know, you can’t expect me to 
know. Father never cared for me, and I’ve never had 
anyone of my own to love me, but Edith, and she’s 
—dying” 

“Darling! Darling!” Dick flung himself across 
the room, impetuously. “I care for you, love you, 
adore you, worship you.” 




194 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“So you say: but”—she rose totteringly, apparently 
to keep him off, really to draw him on, with the won¬ 
derful skill of Eve’s daughters. 

“Aileen!” he snatched her into his arms with a 
caveman’s greed, “is it this?” 

Woman-like, having brought him to the desired 
point, she denied any such scheming. “No! How 
dare you think that? Dick! Dick! What are you 
doing?’’ for by this time he was kissing her with all 
the ardour of long-starved love. 

“Does it require any explanation?’’ he gasped, 
breathlessly. “You wanted-’’ 

“I didn’t! I didn’t! I’ll never speak to you again 
if you say I did.’’ 

“Oh, then you didn’t! All the same”—and again 
she was enveloped in a whirlwind of tempestuous 
caresses, “oh, my dear, my dear.” 

The time to yield had come, for this masterful 
lover had stormed her into surrender. With a long- 
drawn sigh of enjoyment, she gave herself to him. 
“Dick I’m so glad—so glad. You really love me, 
don’t you?” 

“Certainly not!” he cried, joyously. “Would I act 
like this if I did?” 

The answer was apparently satisfactory, for she 
echoed his merry laugh without withdrawing herself. 
“But—if you loved me, why didn’t you say so like 
this long ago?” 

“Darling, you told me that we were to remain 
brother and sister until all this miserable business was 
settled.” 

“Did I? How silly of me!” then sudden remorse 
seized her and she escaped from his eager arms. “How 
selfish I am,” cried Aileen with shamed emotion. 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


J 95 


I think of myself—of you, when we should both be 
thinking of Edith. Oh, Dick, do tell me all about it— 
set my mind at rest.” 

“Not until you have had some dinner,” said Hust¬ 
ings, firmly, and, silencing her protestations with a 
final kiss, he summoned Mrs. Webb, who entered 
smiling knowingly. “Will you see to Miss More’s 
comforts, please, and bring in dinner as soon as she is 
ready.” 

“Yes, sir. Are you staying here for the night, 
Miss?” 

“No,” said Dick, before Aileen could reply, “Miss 
More returns to London.” 

“Miss More doesn’t,” retorted the girl, determinedly, 
“I intend to stay here, until things are settled one way 
or another. Mrs. Webb can act as my chaperone. 
Can’t you—won’t you, Mrs. Webb?” 

“Of course, Miss,” beamed the landlady, her ro¬ 
mantic heart approving of romance, “your room is 
quite ready, Miss. I knew you would stay.” 

“Mrs. Webb knows me better than you do, Dick,” 
taunted Aileen, gaily, as she followed the brisk little 
woman. 

Hustings smiled to himself, very well pleased with 
his unexpected good fortune, which warmed his heart 
and stimulated his brain. From Aileen’s own sweet 
lips he had learned that she would never tolerate 
any lover-like attentions while Miss Danby’s fate 
was in abeyance. But, exercising the traditional 
privilege of her sex, by changing her mind, the girl 
now wanted what she had formerly refused. Dick 
quite understood her impossible chatter, and why she 
had surrendered herself after many wordy, futile 
contradictions. The danger and painful absence of 


196 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


her dearest friend, the loneliness of the cottage, the 
drawn-out suspense and anxiety of the case—these 
things urged her insistently to seek the shelter of his 
protective arms. Feeling forlorn and deserted, Aileen 
required demonstrative love: those caressing actions, 
which speak louder than mere words, however sweet. 
And such love—any love, according to her own show¬ 
ing, the girl had never received, save from Edith. Yet 
there had been her brother, and there was her father— 
ah, yes, her father. Dick desired to learn more of that 
wanderer. So far as he could gather from a stray 
word or so, there did not seem to be much love lost 
between Mr. More and his daughter. Dick resolved 
to question Aileen that very evening, and learn how 
matters really were. 

The lovers, superintended by Mrs. Webb as their 
guardian angel, enjoyed a good dinner, and a quiet 
dinner, since their happiness—a dream oasis in the 
midst of the woeful desert of actuality—made them 
little disposed to speak. Dick had demonstrated his 
love so very emphatically that Aileen was content to 
accept less pressing evidence. It was only when the 
meal ended, and the smiling landlady withdrew after 
bringing in the coffee, that Dick wished to renew earlier 
raptures. Aileen kept him at arm’s length. “No! 
We understand one another fully. I love you: you 
love me. Let it go at that, Dick.” 

“And what then?” he asked disconsolately. 

“Sit down over there!” she pointed to an arm¬ 
chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, “drink 
your coffee and smoke your pipe.” 

He obeyed, though unwillingly. “You are going 
back on the love-trail.” 

“We are leaving the love-trail for the more important 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


197 


one, which will lead to a knowledge of the truth. 
Now then, dear!”—she seated herself at a safe dis¬ 
tance, “tell me everything. ,, 

Hustings drank his coffee, lighted his pipe, and 
related later events: the disappearance of Jimmy Took, 
the appearance of Mr. Chane, and the suspicions of 
Inspector Trant—“who is searching that bungalow,” 
ended Hustings, shaking his head doubtfully, “and if 
he finds nothing we’re up a tree.” 

“I don't see that,” expostulated Aileen, all ears and 
eyes, “Jimmy may come back with news.” 

“It’s a forlorn hope.” 

“No! I agree with you, Dick, that the boy knows 
more than he will admit. He wants to prove his worth, 
so as to realize his ambition to become a detective, 
and will move heaven and earth to get at the truth.” 

“Heaven and earth are not easily moved/’ said 
Dick, cynically. 

“Besides,” went on Aileen, not troubling to notice 
the interruption, “there is Wu Ti who goes to that 
Whitechapel den to smoke opium. Your suggestion 
to the Inspector that the place should be searched is a 
good one. The man is sure to be caught there, and 
then we may learn what he and Mrs. Jerr have to do 
with the matter.” 

“They have nothing to do with it, according to 
Mr. Chane.” 

“By Mr. Chane’s own showing he knows next to 
nothing about the couple,” returned the girl, swiftly. 
“Mr. Trant may find something incriminating in the 
bungalow if he searches it thoroughly.” 

“Oh, he’s bound to search it with a tooth-comb,” 
said Dick, confidently, “and he’ll come along later to 
tell me the result of his pryings and pokings.” 


198 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Aileen did not reply for a second or so, “I wish my 
father were here,” she said, suddenly, ‘‘he is so clever, 
that he would help us greatly.” 

“I also wish he were here,” commented Hustings, 
quickly, “I don’t think very highly of your father, 
dear. If he was a real father he would not leave you 
to face all these troubles alone. And, from the news¬ 
papers, he must know how things stand.” 

“Father never loved me,” said Aileen, clasping her 
knees and staring sadly into the fire. “Roddy was 
the only one he cared for. I was nothing. Oh, he 
was kind, in a chilly way, you know, Dick, but I always 
felt that he looked upon me as a nuisance.” 

“Impossible!” cried Dick, indignantly. 

“Oh it’s true,” Aileen nodded positively. “Mother 
died when I was a mere infant and I was sent to 
my aunt—her sister—to be looked after. When I was 
in my teens Aunt Amy died, and I returned home for a 
time. Of course, while I was with Aunt Amy I used 
to visit father occasionally at his office, and he called 
sometimes to see how I was getting along. But he 
never wanted me in the house, as I wasn’t in his heart, 
so he sent me to a boarding-school at Brighton. There 
I stayed until he was taken prisoner by the Germans 
—as was supposed—and Mr. Quick ran away with the 
money father had left for me. I got a situation as a 
clerk in London, and had a hard time, until Edith found 
me and took me to live with her.” 

“You poor darling,” said Dick sympathetically, 
“but it’s all over, Aileen. You have me now, and I’ll 
love you for ever and ever and ever. If you weren’t 
so thorny a rose I would show you how much I do 
love you,” he half arose. 

Aileen laughed and signed that he should remain 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


199 


where he was. “Pleasure comes after work, you silly 
boy. Don’t think I am not longing as much as you are 
for the golden hour, when all will be sunshine. I am 
starving for love; all my life I have wanted love. 
Roddy was very kind, but I was much younger than 
he was and he took little notice of me. Besides he was 
in love with Edith. As to father—he was always 
freezingly polite; kind enough in his cold, scientific 
way to me, but all his affection was given to Roddy. 
He idolized Roddy and tolerated me. Oh, Dick, 
you’ll have to give me heaps and heaps of love to make 
up for what I have missed.” 

This was such an invitation to offer consolation that 
Dick jumped up, lifted Aileen clean out of her chair, 
and kissed her protestations into silence. Before 
either of the ardent young people could regain self- 
control, two or three sharp raps sounded on the door. 
“Oh!” cried Aileen, immediately returning to the 
safe respectability of her chair; and, “—Oh come in!” 
cried Dick, greatly annoyed by the interruption, as 
any lover would be. 

Inspector Trant made his appearance, looking rather 
stern as he closed the door and addressed himself to 
Aileen: “You should not be here, young lady,” he 
said, reprovingly, “I told you to stay in the cottage, 
under the care of Jenny.” 

“It was Jenny who suggested that I should come 
down here,” replied Aileen, defiantly, “she saw that 
I was worrying myself ill, and so-” 

“So she came to me,” Hustings picked up the girl’s 
speech, equally defiant. “I wonder it doesn’t strike 
you, Mr. Trant, how terrible it is for Aileen to remain 
alone in that dismal cottage under surveillance.” 

“I acted for the best,” said the officer, coldly, “and 



200 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


in point of fact I did not do my duty. Only my debt 
to Aileen’s father prevented me from charging her as 
an accessory. Now don’t get into a rage, Mr. Hust¬ 
ings. As a lawyer you must know that appearances 
are very much against her.” 

“You know, as I know, that she is perfectly inno¬ 
cent,” said Dick hotly, while Aileen rose to clasp his 
arm, going red and white, white and red by turns. 

“Of course she is. I never for a single moment 
suspected her. All the same—but what is the use of 
arguing,” Trant shrugged his shoulders, “you can’t 
see things my way and never will, being in love. You 
must go back, Aileen.” 

“I shan’t!” she stamped her foot, clinging des¬ 
perately to her lover. “Dick and I are engaged to be 
married, and I want to be with him. Besides,” she 
went on, artfully, “you seem to have lost the trail. 
My woman’s intuition may find it again.” 

“There is something in that,” agreed the Inspector, 
dryly. “I shall hold Mr. Hustings responsible for 
your safe keeping, all the same.” 

“She couldn’t have a more careful gaoler,” said 
Dick, patting Aileen’s hand. 

“Mr. Trant!” entreated the girl, “I appreciate 
your kindness and forbearance sufficiently to return 
to Fryfeld when you wish. But do allow me to help.” 

“Oh, well,” the officer wavered, and yielded, “you 
can look into this ghost business, which I fancy has 
something to do with our affair. And visit the bun¬ 
galow. Your younger and sharper ears and eyes may 
be of service there.” 

“Did you find anything suspicious in the house?” 
asked Dick. 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


201 


“Nothing! Only Chane’s belongings. Mrs. Jerr 
and Wu Ti have removed theirs.” 

“And what do you think of the man, himself ?” 

“I don’t suspect him in any way, as he was quite a 
stranger to the couple. He let the bungalow without 
requiring references, since he accepted payment of the 
first quarter’s rent as a sufficient guarantee of the 
woman’s honesty. And she was honest to the last, 
as you probably gathered from that letter he received 
yesterday, enclosing money. Chane!” Trant spoke 
musingly, “I only saw him in the twilight and by the 
light of the candle he carried when we went through the 
house. But somehow he seems to be familiar to me: 
manner, eyes, voice—I can’t put a name to it. Still,” 
he threw back his memory over a score of years, but 
finally shook his head. “I can’t remember. Old age! 
It is time I retired.” 

“You’re not old,” Aileen assured him gently, “no 
older than my father. By the way, I heard from 
him.” 

“From your father,” Trant was surprised and 
pleased. “He is alive then?” 

“Yes! He wrote from Paris, saying that he had 
returned from Germany and would explain his long 
silence when he came to see me.” 

“Odd!” commented the Inspector, pinching his 
chin, “very odd. If taken prisoner during the war, he 
could have returned immediately hostilities ceased. 
And should have done, my dear, to look after you.” 

“My father never cared for me,” said Aileen, sadly. 

“Oh, you must not say that,” he protested, “your 
father is a scientist, you know, thinking much, speaking 
little. Such a man rarely reveals his innermost feel- 


202 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


ings. I have not seen him for close upon twenty years. 
How old are you? ,, 

“Twenty-one!” 

Trant nodded. “It must be quite twenty years 
then, since I nursed you on my knee. I remember 
your father quite clearly. A stout, brown-haired man, 
with a thin brown beard, of no great stature and 
extremely reticent. He was a staunch friend to me 
when I greatly needed one, so I am sure, with such a 
nature, that he loved you, Aileen, although he did not 
show his feelings.” 

“He showed them to my brother,” she retorted, 
bitterly. 

“Well, well, well. Let us hope you are mistaken. 
When you meet him again, things may turn out better 
than you expect,” he strode towards the door. “Good 
night, young people. I am going to listen for the 
voice of that foolish ghost.” 

“You won’t hear it,” Dick assured him, promptly. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I believe the whole business to be a trick 
on the part of Mrs. Jerr or Wu Ti—maybe of both. 
And with their going, goes this ghostly voice.” 

“You can’t be sure of that,” Trant shook his head, 
doubtfully. 

“I can’t be sure of anything. Is Jimmy back?” 

“Not a sign of him. However, since you suggested 
the other string to my bow, I am communicating with 
Scotland Yard with regard to watching Old Wung’s 
opium den. Wu Ti may be found there. It is a 
difficult case, Mr. Hustings, and the further we go into 
it the more difficult it becomes,” the Inspector finished 
with a weary sigh and departed on his ghost-hunt. 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


203 

Dick returned to find Aileen making ready to retire 
and remonstrated, “Oh don’t go. I want to talk.” 

“There is nothing to talk about.” 

“Our love-” 

“That must wait until things are more settled. 
Besides, I am tired after my long day in the train. 
Good night, Dick! And—and—there!” she kissed 
him in an amazing hurry, after a momentary pause, 
blushing delightfully at her boldness. He would 
gladly have returned that kiss with another—maybe 
with a round dozen or so, but that she laughingly 
evaded his embrace and flitted lightly out of the 
parlour. 

“I wish this infernal case was at Jericho,” growled 
the disappointed lover, naturally exasperated by this 
thwarting of romance by realism. And, not greatly 
caring to smoke a lonely pipe by a dying fire, in his 
turn, he went to bed. 

But not to sleep. Throughout the long, long night, 
he tossed and turned, got up and lay down, times 
without number: his nerves all on edge with the per¬ 
plexity of the outlook. The trail was lost, he gloomily 
assured himself, unless Jimmy and his dog, casting 
about, could pick it up by happy chance. The boy 
might possibly return with useful information, since 
he must have some good reason to act so boldly, 
yet secretively. Anyhow, in this direction there was 
a hope—albeit a forlorn one—of a prosperous issue, 
and that was something comfortable to dwell upon. 
But, towards the small hours of the morning, Dick 
assured himself, after much cogitation, that the 
best way of arriving at helpful results was to speed up 
the arrest of Wu Ti. That mysterious personage, 



204 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


and Slanton’s enemy, according to Jenny Walton, 
would certainly return like a homing pigeon to the 
Whitechapel opium den. When discovered there, 
helpless in the fumes of the black smoke, he could 
easily be captured and forced to speak. Then there 
would be revelations. On this more of less satis¬ 
factory conclusion, the young man slept, shortly before 
the dawn, worn out with the mill-wheel monotony of 
recurrent thoughts. 

The morning found him less haggard than might 
have been expected after so sleepless a night. This 
was owing to Nature exacting her dues, for he did not 
open his eyes until a late hour. It was eleven o’clock 
before he was up and bathed and shaved and dressed 
and seated at a solitary breakfast. Mrs. Webb 
brought this in with a message that Miss More had left 
the inn an hour earlier to visit the bungalow, and 
desired Mr. Hustings to follow. Irritated by his 
lethargy, Dick dispatched a hurried meal and obeyed. 
His long strides soon took him through the sunken lane, 
up to the bungalow, and into the neat garden. The 
door of the house stood wide open, so the young man 
had no hesitation in entering forthwith. Aileen was 
in the house, and as Aileen’s lover he did not intend 
to stand upon ceremony. Along the passage he strode 
masterfully and into the room, wherein he had inter¬ 
viewed Mrs. Jerr. There was the girl, pale and 
shaken: there was Chane, cold, aloof, watchful. 

“Dick!” said Aileen, and her voice trembled, “this is 
my father.” 


CHAPTER XV 


A CLUE 

Aileen’s father—the released war-prisoner—the long- 
missing man? Frozen into an amazed silence by 
the revelation, Dick had strong doubts as to its truth. 
It seemed incredible that this elfish little creature, 
smiling cynically, could be the brown-haired, stout, 
scanty-bearded friend of Inspector Trant. “It’s im¬ 
possible !” he stammered, after a lengthy pause, dur¬ 
ing which he waited vainly for an explanation. 

“Why impossible, Mr. Hustings?” asked More, 
alias Chane, in his light voice. 

“Trant’s description of your-” 

“Yes! Yes! Aileen told me how he described 
my twenty-years-ago appearance. Very accurate 
then—but now—Time brings changes—Time brings 
changes.” 

“Surely not such great ones as would alter your 
looks so completely,” blurted out the still-astonished 
young man. “Trant did not know you.” 

“Naturally. Twenty years: twilight: candle-light! 
How could he know me?” 

“There was light enough for him to read Mrs. Jerr’s 
letter.” 

“But not sufficient for him to recognize an old 
friend.” 

“Going by Trant’s description, I doubt if any one 
of your old friends would know you, sir.” 

205 



206 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Aileen knew me,” retorted More, curtly. 

“I should think so. It is not long since she saw 
you.” 

“Yet when she did see me, before I went to France,” 
said the little man with twinkling malice, “I was still 
brown-haired, brown-bearded and stout, though a 
trifle the worse for wear and tear.” 

“Is that so?” Dick turned to the girl, more puzzled 
than ever. 

She nodded, “I did not know my father immediately; 
but when I looked into his eyes—you can’t alter the 
colour and individual expression of the eyes. Also, 
my father has a trick of stroking his chin when 
thoughtful, and-” 

“And I stroked it when surprised by your un¬ 
expected visit,” interposed More, shrugging. “Oh, 
these mannerisms: they always betray the best 
disguise.” 

“Disguise!” Dick scrutinized the speaker keenly, 
recollecting that the suspected Mrs. Jerr had been his 
tenant. 

“An ominous word, isn’t it?” jeered More, de¬ 
risively, “and rather suggestive of my complicity in 
this Slanton murder. But you have found a mare’s- 
nest, Mr. Hustings. My changed looks are due to an 
attempted escape from prison.” 

“A German war-prison?” asked Aileen, unthink¬ 
ingly emphasising the noun. 

“Surely my child, I am not a felon, although you 
imply a doubt.” 

She protested, flushed and apologetic, “I never 
meant-” 

“I will take it that you meant less than your speech 
hinted,” said her father with some dignity. “Aileen, 




A CLUE 


207 

Aileen”—he shook his head, sadly—“you never loved 
me as your brother did.” 

“How could I when you never showed any signs of 
wanting my love?” demanded the girl, almost fiercely. 
“All your affection was given to .Roddy.” 

“Not all. I had much left for you.” 

“Then why didn’t you give it to me, father? You 
never allowed me to come into your life. I was exiled 
to Aunt Amy’s house: after she died, to that boarding- 
school at Brighton. All my life I have hungered for 
what I never obtained.” 

“We are at cross purposes, it seems,” commented 
More, coldly. 

“Not on my part,” denied his daughter, vehemently. 
“To me you have always been a guardian, never a 
father. Only Edith loved me-” 

“And now I love her,” struck in Dick, thinking it 
just as well that this dry-as-dust scientist should know 
the truth, “we are engaged to be married.” 

“I have not yet been consulted,” said More, 
stiffly. 

“It was impossible to consult you, father, when you 
were missing and, by many, supposed to be dead. 
Also, why should I consult you, seeing that I am less a 
daughter to you than a stranger.” 

“I am to blame,” admitted More, again dignified, 
“but not so much as might appear to a superficial 
observer, which I fear you are, Aileen. Let me explain 
—and let us be seated,” he shrugged, smilingly, “for 
I really don’t know why we have been standing all 
this time.” 

Dropping lightly into the nearest chair, the little 
man, a strange mixture of gaiety and gravity, signed 
that the others should follow his example. They 



208 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


did so, the girl seating herself as closely to Dick as was 
possible. He guessed that she wished for the comfort 
of his presence and closed a strong hand over one of 
her own. More noted the encouraging clasp, which 
revealed plainly that his daughter trusted her lover and 
doubted him. “Don’t judge me until you hear my 
explanation,” he said satirically, but wincing at the 
action. 

The young people said nothing, and somewhat dis¬ 
concerted by their silence, the speaker, now standing 
at the bar of judgment, entered into details. He 
related how he had taken a Government appointment in 
France, connected with aeroplane wireless operations; 
how, left behind during a forced retreat of the Allies, 
he had been captured, and how a German prison-camp 
had held him for months, fretting his heart out. “I 
tried to escape several times,” he went on with the 
cklm precision of a scientist, “but invariably I was 
brought back. Finally I was transferred to another 
and safer district, and in my new prison I found a 
friend. Herr Hopf was, like myself, a scientific 
student, disapproving of the war, and therefore de¬ 
clined to regard me as an enemy.” 

“A rare specimen of a German professor,” remarked 
Dick, grimly. 

“Quite so,” retorted More, sharply, “but one with 
whom I was fortunate enough to come into contact. 
He helped me to get away by transforming my appear¬ 
ance from that which you knew, Aileen, to that which 
you now see. Meagre prison-fare had already rid me 
of my stoutness, and it was easy for me to shave off my 
beard. Hopf bleached my hair; changed, by a proc¬ 
ess, which I need not describe, the contours of my face, 
and-” 



A CLUE 


209 

“He has altered your nose, father,’’ said the girl, 
staring. 

“Yes! And by cutting certain nerves, he changed 
my expression. Also he lightened my skin, formerly 
ruddy, now pale golden, and—and, oh in various ways 
he turned me from one man into another. But the 
eyes—you are right, Aileen, clever as he was, Hopf 
could do nothing with the eyes. It was clever of you 
to see in them your transformed father.” 

“I don’t know,” she said, slowly, “if you hadn’t 
stroked your face-” 

“Ah, yes. Hopf warned me against mannerisms, 
but one forgets.” 

“And your voice,” went on Aileen, “it’s so—so thin 
and—and—light.” 

“Used to be heavy, didn’t it? Hopf again: you 
wouldn’t understand if I explained, so I won’t waste 
my breath. But that change isn’t lasting—I can, if 
I chose go back to”—here More suddenly checked 
himself with a swift glance at Dick, “Well, well, so 
much for my changed looks.” 

“And you escaped!” said Hustings, wondering why 
the man had pulled himself up. 

‘SDnly out of the frying-pan into the fire,” muttered 
the scientist, between his teeth, and frowning darkly, 
“it was impossible to creep westward out of Germany, 
so I was forced to struggle eastward.” 

“You went to Russia?” 

“I went to Hell, Mr. Hustings. There, the new dis¬ 
order of things drew me into their whirlpool, to be 
beaten, starved, shot at, tortured, and—oh let me talk 
no more of what I underwent,” and covering his face 
with his hands, the cold little man became much more 
human for the moment. 



210 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Aileen’s generous heart forgave him on the instant. 
Leaving her chair she went to kneel by the broken man 
and smooth his hand. “Don’t think anything more 
about it, father. You are safe now, and happiness 
lies before you.” 

“Good child, good child,” murmured More, not un¬ 
moved, “let us be better friends for the future, Aileen. 
But happiness is not for me,” he rose with a tragic 
gesture, with a despairing cry. “I have lost my 
Roderick—my only son.” 

“But you have your daughter!” Dick reminded 
him gently, for the cry came poignantly, and rang truly 
in its revelation of suffering. 

“My daughter will marry you; go away, and for¬ 
get me.” 

“No, Father, no. We have been at cross purposes, 
as you say. But now-” 

“Now we will be better friends: no more. You 
mean well, my dear. I thank you. But Roderick was 
everything to me, and I have lost him, lost him, lost 
him.” 

“Surely Aileen-” began Dick, indignant that 

the girl’s proffered affection should be so definitely 
rejected. 

More cut him short, fiercely positive. “Can Aileen 
carry on my research work—has she the brains, the 
training, the knowledge to finish what I have begun? 
No! You little understand my feelings, which are 
those of a scientist as well as those of a father. I have 
lost more than my son. I am deprived of an assistant, 
who helped me as no one else could have done, as no 
one else ever can do. My brilliant, clever boy. Oh 
what a loss to the world of science.” 

“He gave up his life for his country, sir.” 




A CLUE 


211 


“Oh!” More stared strangely at the speaker, 
ignoring his daughter, who clung sobbing to that 
speaker’s shoulder, “he gave up his life for his country, 
you say. Why—so he did!” and he smiled so weirdly, 
that Hustings shrank back. He wished, for Aileen’s 
sake, to like More, but he could not bring himself to 
the point of liking. There was something sinister, 
threatening, uncanny, about him. 

“Oh, father, I am sorry for you,” sobbed Aileen, 
raising her tearful face. 

“There! There!” said More, gloomily, and patting 
her shoulder, “I appreciate your sympathy, my dear. 
Roderick is dead; crying and raging, prayer and fast¬ 
ing will not bring him back. But, as for those who 

killed him-” he stopped abruptly and clenched his 

fists, smiling in a most venomous manner. 

“You hate the Germans, I see, sir. But—the 
fortune of war!” 

“Hate the—oh yes! Fortune of war—naturally,” 
he laughed shrilly, “my son—only son, who might 
have been—would have been, helpful beyond knowing 
to humanity, with his discoveries. A genius, sir a 
genius! And he is dead! dead! dead! Fortune of 
war did you say, Mr. Hustings? Why, of course! 
Fortune of war!” and he laughed again, thinly, 
cruelly, mockingly. 

Drying her tears Aileen glanced anxiously from her 
father to Dick, who was likewise perturbed. They 
simultaneously thought that the poor soul s mind was 
unbalanced. And small wonder if such was the case. 
The laborious work in France, the sordid captivity in 
Germany, the infernal torments in Russia, and above 
all the irreparable loss of his son—less crowded dis¬ 
asters than these would serve to shake a man’s sanity. 


212 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


More noted their silence and guessed their thoughts 
with uncanny perspicuity. “Perhaps I am mad!” he 
said, piteously, “only I wish that my madness would 
include loss of memory. But there! there! there!” 
he recovered his self-control with startling rapidity. 
“What else is there to say? I got away from Russia, 
some few months ago, in the steamer of a Petrograd 
skipper, to whom I did a good turn. That’s all there 
is to tell.” 

“But your change of name?” questioned Dick, 
swiftly, as he and Aileen sat down again, “why did 
you change your name?” 

“To match my changed looks maybe,” replied More 
with a shrug. 

“And why did you not write to me immediately 
—come to see me without delay?” demanded Aileen, 
“you knew how anxious I was.” 

“Did I ? I forget,” replied her father, indifferently, 
“but I learned that you were living with that woman 
who seduced Roderick into loving her, and for that 
reason I left you in ignorance of my doings.” 

“Don’t say a word against Edith,” cried Aileen, 
flushing up with sparkling eyes, “she is the best and 
dearest friend I have. When Mr. Quick ran away with 
the money you left for me-” 

“I heard of that,” interpolated her father, grimly, 
“and I shall settle accounts with Quick, sooner or 
later, never fear.” 

“Well, when his dishonesty drove me to work in a 
City office, Edith sought me out and took me to live 
with her.” 

“On Roderick’s money,” sneered More, cynically, 
“she could well afford to do that, since he was fool 
enough to leave it to her. The scheming adventuress.” 



A CLUE 


213 


“She is not that, father. You misjudge her. Edith 
went to find you and offer back the money, which she 
did not want. Failing to find you, she offered the 
money to me. I refused, so she engaged me as her 
companion. Does that look as if Edith was a bad 
woman? No! She loved Roderick truly and for 
himself.” 

More seemed rather taken aback by-this information. 
“I am sorry if I have misjudged her,” he said, slowly, 
“she may be better than I have thought.” 

“She is—she is,” Aileen assured him, vehemently. 

“Offered to return the money did she?” mused More, 
ignoring the speech. “If I had known that I might 
have—but it’s too late now,” his face darkened, and 
he sighed, regretfully, Dick fancied. A moment 
later and he went on, briskly, “I changed my name 
because I am engaged in certain scientific work, 
which I hope will end war. War deprived me of my 
son, and it is my desire to save other fathers from 
suffering as I am suffering.” 

“And your invention-?” 

“No, Mr. Hustings. I shall say nothing of that 
just now. But when I am ready I hope to place at 
the disposition of a sane Government, a weapon which 
will give that Government the mastery of the world. 
I say a sane Government, you observe: one which 
will use this weapon to stop war, not continue 
war.” 

“Our own Government?” asked Dick, rather 
mockingly. 

“I don’t know: I can’t say. It depends upon the 
Government in which I find most common sense. 
What did Tennyson say, years ago in Locksley Hall?” 
and the little man quoted with fiery emphasis: 



214 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“ ‘When the common sense of most shall hold a fret¬ 
ful realm in awe.’ 

“Maybe I shall be the one to fulfil that prophecy. 
In the hands of sane men, this weapon I am inventing 
will shape the policy of the planet. And again I 
emphasise the word ‘sane/ ” 

“Where do you hope to find the sanity that will 
exercise unlimited power, in a selfless way, for the 
benefit of humanity?” asked Dick, with a doubtful 
shrug. 

More did not answer this question, save that he 
imitated the disbelieving gesture. “So that is my 
explanation. I work in London usually, but come 
down here for rest. I bought this bungalow from 
Mrs. Brine’s executors for this purpose. But this 
silly ghost business worried me, so I let it to Mrs. 
Jerr. As you know, she could not stand that trouble 
either and left.” 

“Did you hear the Voice before Mrs. Jerr came?” 

“Yes! And tried my best to arrive at some ex¬ 
planation. But it proved impossible. That it is a 
trick I am convinced: but how and why I can’t 
say. However, now that I am here again with Rack- 
ham to look after me, I shall search again into the 
matter.” 

“Rackham!” echoed Aileen, starting, “that was 
Roddy’s servant.” 

“His batman. Yes! When I arrived in England 
I found that Rackham had left a letter at my office, 
saying that he wished to see me—to deliver some 
articles left by his master. I wrote to the address 
Rackham gave, and had an interview with him when 
he called.” More’s face darkened again. “It was a 


A CLUE 


215 


very interesting interview,” he said slowly, and gloom¬ 
ily, “and resulted in Rackham becoming my servant. 
It was the least I could do for one so faithful to my son. 
Rackham worshipped Roderick, as I did. Who could 
help doing so?” 

“Is Rackham here?” asked Dick, suddenly. 

“Yes. He came down this morning. Why?” 

“He was in the Base-hospital when your son died, 
and might be able to tell us something about Dr. 
Slanton.” 

“Oh, yes. Slanton was the doctor there. Rackham 
told me that, but he said very little about the man, 
save that few liked him. Unless Miss Danby-” 

“She detested him,” broke in Aileen, angrily, “the 
man wished to marry her.” 

“So it was stated at the inquest proceedings, if the 
newspaper reports are to be relied upon. She must 
have detested him to some purpose, to have drugged, 
and tattooed, and finally to have strangled the poor 
devil.” 

“She did not—she did not. Edith is as innocent 
as you are, as I am, father.” 

“I hope so!” More spoke with genuine honesty. 
“I never liked the woman when she was my secretary, 
as I thought that she was scheming to marry Roderick, 
for the fortune his mother left him. But, if she really 
wished to restore it- ” 

“She did—she really did. Not finding you she 
several times offered it to me.” 

“And what is more,” chimed in Dick, meaningly, 
“Miss Danby told me herself about her will, leaving 
the income to Aileen.” 

“Ah!” More looked up quickly, “she expects to " 
be hanged then ?” 




216 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“She expects death, anyhow, Mr. More; if not by 
hanging, then by cancer.” 

“Cancer!” More arose, his light-coloured face 
working with emotion, “Poor woman. I fear that I 
have misjudged her. Had I only known”—his hands 
opened and shut convulsively—“oh, had I only 
known.” 

“Known what, father?” It was Aileen who put 
the question, surprised at this display of feeling by the 
cold-natured little man. 

“That she loved Roderick for himself and not for 
his money. Then I would not have forbidden the 
marriage. And my son might have been still alive. 
Shakespeare is right in his Puck saying: ‘Lord, what 
fools these mortals be!’ But I am punished: Roder¬ 
ick is dead. I am alone.” 

“You have me, father!” 

“Have I,” he looked keenly at the girl, “then come 
and live here with me.” 

Aileen drew back, “No!” she replied, resolutely, 
“I shall stay in Edith’s cottage until Edith’s character 
is cleared.” 

“Or until she dies,” mocked her father, shrugging. 
“That seems more certain than her chance of being 
proved innocent.” 

“Can’t you help, sir?” 

“No!” More looked both surprised and regretful, 
“I only wish it was in my power to do so, seeing how 
sadly I have misjudged this woman. But, as I have 
told all I know about Mrs. Jerr, and know nothing of 
Slanton, but what Rackham has told me, I don’t see 
what I can do.” 

“I should like to ask Rackham a few questions, 
with your permission.” 


A CLUE 


217 


“Certainly!” More pulled the bell-rope dangling 
near his hand, “but I fear you will learn little from 
him. Still, he may suggest something useful, as 
possibly in Slanton’s past will be found the reason 
for Slanton’s death. Ah, Rackham!” he went on, 
lightly, as a tallish, soldierly man appeared at the door 
“this gentleman wishes to learn what you know of that 
doctor who attended Mr. Roderick when he died.” 

Rackham presented himself as a grim-looking per¬ 
son, with a lean, weather-beaten face, clean-shaven, 
and cruelly marked. On its left side, a reddish scar 
ran down his cheek from ear to mouth, giving him 
a somewhat sinister appearance. He saluted, stood 
rigidly straight, and answered gruffly. “Dr. Slanton. 
A bad lot, sir: smoked opium and was much too free 
in his habits, begging this young lady’s pardon. Saw 
him often when Lieutenant More died; but haven’t 
seen him since, and don’t want to.” 

“Had he any enemies do you know?” 

“Heaps of ’em I should think, sir. I’m one.” 

“You?” 

“Yes, sir!” returned the ex-soldier, phlegmati¬ 
cally. “I don’t think he knew his business as a doctor 
or Lieutenant More wouldn’t have gone west.” 

“What do you mean, exactly?” 

“What I say, sir. Sister Danby who nursed my 
master was handy enough and did her best. But 
that blighter—if you’ll excuse the word, sir—didn’t 
give Lieutenant More proper attention.” 

Before Dick could ask another question Aileen put 
one herself. “Do you know that Dr. Slanton has been 
murdered ?” 

“Saw it in the newspapers, Miss. And I’m neither 
surprised nor sorry, Miss. The Devil came for his 


2l8 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


own and got him, as I knew he would some day.” 

“And the name of the Devil—the person who killed 
Slanton?” asked Dick, dryly. 

“I know nothing of that, sir. If it’s Sister Danby as 
they say, I’d like to shake her by the hand. That 
physic-merchant was a Hun, sir—leastways he’d all 
the devilment of one. I’m glad he got it in the neck.” 

“Then you can tell me nothing about the man ?” 

“Nothing, except what’s rotten, sir.” Rackham 
smiled grimly, and the wrinkling up of his gruesome 
face caused the scar to writhe unpleasantly. “Any 
more questions, sir? Not that I can tell you anything.” 

Dick shook his head, woefully disappointed, where¬ 
upon More dismissed his servant with a curt nod. 
“You mustn’t be angry with Rackham’s blood-thirsty 
talk!” he said, looking apologetically at the young 
people. “He loved Roderick as much as I did. Of 
course I can’t swear that Slanton caused my son’s 
death by inattention, or ignorance; but if I had known, 
for certain”—and his face became fiercely cruel—“I 
should have—should have—well there’s no saying to 
what lengths I should have gone to revenge Roderick. 
But there you are! You know everything now. Let 
us change the subject. I am not master of myself 
when I think of my lost son. Well, well, well. 
Luncheon ?” 

“No thank you, father,” refused Aileen, who was 
feeling exhausted by the somewhat stormy half- 
hour, “I wish to return to the inn and see Mr. Trant.” 

More was by no means offended, and, indeed, seemed 
relieved. “If you do, tell him who I am, and explain 
the reason for my changed appearance,” said More, 
accompanying his visitors to the outer door, “it will 


A CLUE 


219 


save me from repeating myself when Trant comes to 
see me again.” 

With marked courtesy he conducted Aileen and her 
lover to the gate, waving a friendly farewell as he 
returned to the house. But behind these externals— 
and both the young people felt the sensation—there 
lurked a hidden gladness at having got rid of them. 
“I am willing to help father, and father is ready to be 
friendly with me,” said Aileen voicing her feelings, 
“but it’s too late. I can never feel that he is really 
my father.” 

“Don’t be too hard on him, dear. It’s my belief 
that he is slightly crazy.” 

“Oh, Dick!” cried the girl in dismay, and with a 
shiver of pity and horror. 

“Well, is it to be wondered at, considering what he 
has gone through? Let us accept the position, Aileen, 
and leave him to Rackham and his inventions. We 
must think of ourselves, of Miss Danby’s plight, of 
getting things settled.” 

She nodded sadly. “If father showed the least sign 
of wanting me, I shouldn’t agree with you, Dick. 
But, as it is, I think you are right. Poor father. He 
has nothing to live for now.” 

“Oh, there’s his invention and dreams of creating a 
world-peace. Those will comfort him and help him to 
forget.” 

Dick spoke soberly, being really sorry for the 
wretched little man, in spite of his innate distrust, 
and was about to guide Aileen down the lane when the 
unexpected happened. A distant shout came to their 
ears, and they turned simultaneously to see a figure 
plodding wearily towards them-—the figure of a man, 


220 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


with a dog running beside him. “Jimmy!” cried 
Dick delightedly, and he ran to meet the boy, leaving 
Aileen where she stood expectant of news. 

“Jimmy, boy/’ Hustings put his arm round the 
weary, dusty lad, who seemed to be on the point of 
falling, “I am glad to see you. Let me help you to 
the inn. You are worn out, and the dog isn’t much 
better. When you have eaten and rested you can tell 
me your news.” 

“I must tell you now,” gasped Jimmy, hoarsely, 
“that girl Jenny Walton?” 

“Jenny Walton ? How did you—yes—yes ?” 

“She has run away. And—and—oh Bill Tyson— 
Old Wung!” the lad collapsed. 


CHAPTER XVI 


jimmy’s adventure 

It was Aileen who took charge of the situation. She 
and her lover between them half led, half carried the 
fainting lad to the inn, with the dog limping pain¬ 
fully behind. Both Jimmy and the Airedale were 
thoroughly worn-out, having evidently been travel¬ 
ling at top-speed for endless miles. And maybe, 
from distant Fryfeld, as might be surmised from the 
mention of Jenny Walton. Dick was on fire to learn 
how the boy had come into contact with Miss Danby’s 
servant and why he coupled her name with those of 
Bill Tyson and Old Wung. Inspector Trant, whom 
the two met in the village street, was no less clamorous 
for information; and Webb, receiving them at The 
Pink Cow, demanded immediate explanations about 
his stolen dog. But Aileen suppressed the three, 
authoritatively. “Jimmy isn’t fit to talk!’ she de¬ 
clared, resolutely, and Mrs. Webb, with murmuring 
sympathy, supported her in this decision. 

So the two wise women shut out the excited men, 
compelled their patient to eat a good meal, and con¬ 
ducted him upstairs to a comfortable bed with orders 
to lie down and sleep throughout the afternoon. 
Then they descended to defy interference on the part 
of the anxious inquirers, who resented any delay at so 
critical a moment. Mrs. Webb was particularly sharp 
with her husband, who harped peevishly on the ex¬ 
hausted condition of his prize Airedale. 

221 


222 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Oh, bother the dog, Alf. Food and drink and rest 
will put him right.” 

“Jimmy took him away without my permission.” 

“Well, he’s taken him out before for runs with your 
permission. Jimmy’-s an honest lad, and you’re a 
zany. Get along with you. Oh these men, these 
men, Miss More,” mourned the landlady to Aileen, 
“however would the sillies get on without us sensible 
women,” and she chased her grumbling husband out 
of the parlour, laughing at his protestations. 

“When will that boy be able to talk?” asked the 
Inspector, when left alone with Dick and the girl. 

“As soon as he wakens of his own accord,” she 
rejoined promptly. “You wish him to describe his 
doings clearly, don’t you? Well, how can he do so 
until he recovers his strength ?” 

Trant laughed approvingly. “Oh I think you have 
acted rightly; albeit somewhat authoritatively, Aileen. 
But every moment is of value.” 

“The more haste the less speed,” retorted Miss 
More, spiritedly. “I daresay Jimmy will come down, 
clothed and in his right mind, about four or five o’clock. 
Meanwhile, Dick and I have plenty to tell you. Your 
time won’t be wasted.” 

“One moment!” the officer pulled out his note¬ 
book and flipped over a dozen leaves or so, until he 
found what he wanted. “That boy mentioned the 
name of Bill Tyson when he met you, Mr. Hustings,” 
he said, ponderingly. “Here I find a statement you 
made saying that he is the Walton girl’s lover.” 

Dick nodded. “He got two years for burglary. 
Jenny told us that, but did not let us know that Slanton 
was the accuser. Bender found out that Tyson broke 
into Slanton’s Hampstead cottage.” 


JIMMY’S ADVENTURE 


223 


This time the Inspector nodded and turned over a 
few more leaves. “Old Wung—the Walton girl 
mentioned that as the place Slanton frequented.” 

“Yes. And Jenny herself, Tyson and Wu Ti all 
went there. I wish I had asked the girl for its where¬ 
abouts.” 

“Don’t worry over that, Mr. Hustings,” said Trant, 
dryly, putting away his note-book, “Old Wung’s den 
has been located, and the police are watching there for 
the return of Wu Th I wonder if Tyson has gone 
there too?” 

“But he’s in prison,” said Aileen, with a start. 

“I rather guess from Jimmy’s mention of his name, 
that he’s broken prison. However, I’ll soon make 
sure of that,” and Trant rose to depart. 

“Don’t go,” implored Aileen, hurriedly, “I want to 
tell you of my father.” 

“Your father—my good friend!” Trant’s face 
lighted up with genuine pleasure, “Have you heard 
from him again? Has he left Paris for London?” 

“No,” said Dick, dryly, “he has left London for 
Wessbury.” 

“Really. I am delighted. He has come to see you, 
Aileen, I expect. But how did he find out that you 
were here?” 

“He did not find me, I found him,” said the girl, 
awkwardly, “at the bungalow.” 

“Oh, indeed. Then he knows Mr. Chane.” 

“He is Mr. Chane.” 

“What! What! What!” stuttered the Inspector, 
scarcely believing his ears, and sat down again, with 
astonishment written largely on his face, “Impossible, 
oh quite impossible. I would have recognized him 
last night.” 


224 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“You wouldn’t recognize him in broad daylight,” 
sighed Aileen. 

“All the same, Trant, you suggested that there was 
something familiar about the so-called Chane, when 
you met him,” observed Dick, recalling to the man’s 
mind the previous night’s conversation in the parlour. 

“So I did: so I did. Chane! Good Lord! Why 
has your father changed his name?” 

Aileen told him, with the assistance of Dick, and 
between them they acquainted the officer with the 
dismal history of More, from start to finish. He 
listened in sympathetic silence. “Oh my poor, poor 
friend. How he must have suffered: how he must be 
still suffering. I shall call and see him. As he was 
good to me, I must be good to him. And Rackham! 
H’m!” his tone changed, as he pinched his chin per¬ 
plexedly, “it seems to me that he knows more about 
this Slanton than he will let out.” 

“I don’t think so,” protested Hustings, hastily, “he 
hated the man so thoroughly that he told everything 
he could to his discredit.” 

“Well, then, he can repeat the same to me. He 
saw, by his own confession, a great deal of Slanton 
when in the base-hospital, and may give me some useful 
hints.” The Inspector rose again and walked to the 
door. “I’ll go to the bungalow this evening. Mean¬ 
while I am going to Chelmsford, to telephone Scotland 
Yard and learn if Tyson has broken prison. Expect 
me back at four o’clock, and please see that Jimmy 
Took is up and about to explain his absence,” he 
opened the door to go out, then paused suddenly and 
turned to ask a question, looking greatly puzzled, “I 
don’t know why it should come into miy head, but 
describe Rackham’s looks to me.” 


JIMMY’S ADVENTURE 


225 


Equally surprised, Dick hastily sketched the man’s 
appearance, laying stress on the scarred face, “Al¬ 
though I don’t know why you asked,” said Dick. 

“Nor do I,” confessed Trant with a shrug. “I said 
as much!” and forthwith departed, leaving Hustings 
looking queerly at Aileen. 

“Upon my word, I believe that Slanton is looking 
after this business from the other side, as Mrs. Grutch 
asserted,” he remarked, slowly, “the word ‘Whisper¬ 
ing’ dinned into my ears, and now Trant’s apparently 
foolish question. He can’t suspect Rackham, who has 
nothing to do with the matter. Yet he asks-” 

“Oh, Dick, what is the use of worrying over such 
things,” interrupted Aileen, wearily, “I’m too tired to 
argue. Besides it’s silly.” 

The lawyer was of a different opinion, but said no 
more. All the same the oddity of the incident dwelt 
in his mind. The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, 
with an inspection of the Airedale, now recovering, a 
sauntering walk in and out and round about the pictur¬ 
esque village, and a return to the inn for tea and toast, 
and congratulations to Jimmy on his recovery. “You 
have pulled round wonderfully, youngster,” Dick told 
him, while the boy devoured several rounds of buttered 
toast, and drank several cups of tea. 

“Sleep always fills me up with strength,” said Jimmy, 
smilling gratefully at Aileen, “and it’s thanks to Miss 
More that I got the sleep. I was dog tired, as I told 
my father.” 

“Have you seen him?” 

“Yes, Miss More, Mrs. Webb sent for him and he 
came up to the bedroom. I was just opening my eyes 
—about three o’clock, it was—so he sat himself down 
on my bed, and I told him all my adventures.” 



226 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Now you must tell them to us!” Aileen smiled 
on the handsome lad, to whom she had taken a fancy, 
which was, needless to say, heartily reciprocated. 

“When the Inspector comes, Miss More,” declared 
Jimmy, firmly: for not even the cajoling of lovely 
woman could move his singularly obstinate mind. “I 
don’t want to waste words in repeating things for the 
third time.” 

“Trant will be here soon,” observed Dick, glancing 
at Aileen for permission to smoke. “Mrs. Webb told 
me that he had returned from Chelmsford,” and, even 
as he spoke the officer made his appearance, looking 
decidedly grim. “Eh! What is it?” queried Dick, 
hastily, when noting the expression. 

“I’ll tell you when I have heard this youngster’s 
story.” 

“Some tea, Mr. Trant?” Aileen half arose to ring 
the bell for a fresh pot. 

“No thank you, my dear,” replied the Inspector, 
seating himself so as to command an uninterrupted 
view of Jimmy’s face. “Now then, boy?” 

“It’s this way, sir. I always had an idea that Mrs. 
Jerr and Wu Ti were up to something. When Mr. 
Hustings told me about the murder, I was sure.” 

“Upon what grounds?” 

“My finding of the swastika scarf-pin, for one thing. 
Also!” confessed Jimmy, guardedly, “I worked in the 
old lady’s garden for some time, and, although there 
was nothing I could put a name to, somehow an air of 
mystery hung about that bungalow.” 

“Your imagination!” hinted the Inspector, dubi¬ 
ously. 

The youth smiled, slyly. “Might have been, sir, 


JIMMY’S ADVENTURE 


227 


and perhaps it was that which made Mrs. Jerr dismiss 
me as a meddlesome brat. I was too inquisitive for 
her liking. Anyhow my imagination led me to watch 
the pair. After Mr. Hustings paid his visit, I thought 
that, if my ideas were worth anything, it would 
frighten them into taking French leave. And then— 
do you remember my going home to get my bag and 
things when you agreed to take me with you?” he 
asked, turning towards Dick. 

“Yes! And I remember also that you were a con¬ 
foundedly long time away.” 

“I had to go to the chemist to get some aniseed,” 
confessed Jimmy, simply. 

“What on earth for?” 

“To lay a trail. I guessed that if my suspicions 
were correct, the two would not risk taking the bus or 
train, as both would be too public, if secrecy was their 
object. Everyone in the village knows that Wu Ti 
often took the old lady out for an airing in the side-car 
of his motor-cycle, so I felt certain that it would be 
used as the best means of escape. Knowing where it 
was stored, I crept into the coal-shed at the back of 
the bungalow and sprinkled the wheels thoroughly 
with aniseed.” 

“You had Mr. Webb’s dog in your mind!” cried 
Aileen, admiringly. 

“Yes, Miss More. Todgers and I are old friends. 
I knew that most dogs, let alone Todgers with his keen 
nose, would follow so strong a scent. My only fear 
was that it mightn’t last long enough. And for that 
reason”—he nodded to Trant—“I wanted you to 
come straight down to Wessbury. When you did 
come later, and sent me home, I thought, during the 


228 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


night, that I would test the trail. Just before six 
o’clock in the morning I collared the dog and laid him 
on the scent.” 

“Did he pick it up?” asked Trant, mortified to be 
reminded of his dilatoriness, but unable to refrain 
from approval. 

“Like a bird!” cried Jimmy, metaphorically in¬ 
correct, but mightily enthusiastic. “I held Todgers 
in leash and he led me along the waggon-road across 
the common. Then, some miles away, the trail passed 
over the highway and went down a lane. I knew the 
lay of the land by that time.” 

“How did you know?” 

“I had a road-map, and the highway gave me my 
bearings.” 

“Good lad!” cried Dick, delightedly, “you thought 
of everything.” % 

“Not of food, sir,” said the boy, ruefully. “I 
forgot to take some with me in my hurry, and was 
mighty hungry I can tell you.” 

“No wonder you were worn-out when you got back,” 
commented Aileen, tartly. “Why didn’t you get food 
in the first village you came to?” 

“I didn’t dare to leave the trail, Miss More. I knew 
that the scent was light enough as it was, and mightn’t 
lie much longer. No, I hung on for miles and miles. 
It led me—the trail I mean—along all kinds of crooked 
ways: round ponds, through plantations, up hill 
. paths and down them, always avoiding the main 
road.” 

“Natural enough,” observed Trant, nodding, “I 
expect Wu Ti guessed that the sight of a pig-tailed 
Chinaman riding a bike with an old lady long-side him, 
would lead to them being easily traced.” 


JIMMY’S ADVENTURE 


229 


“It would,” agreed Jimmy, dryly, “but I rather 
think, sir, that Wu Ti put on European clothes for 
the journey.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“My common-sense tells me so. Also I didn’t 
find—but there,” Jimmy pulled himself up sharply, 
“I’m rushing on too far ahead. I was all day trailing 
my birds, and finally Todgers, somewhere about sun¬ 
down, led me into an isolated little wood. There the 
trail ended.” 

“And you found Mrs. Jerr and-” began Aileen, 

breathlessly. 

Jimmy cut her short. “I found neither. The trail 
ended in an open glade, in the middle of this wood. As 
the sunset was strongly red and flaming right in 
through the trees, I saw everything clearly.” 

“What did you see?” asked Trant, eagerly. 

“The motor-cycle-side-car wheel-marks on the brink 
of a pool. I tied Todgers to a tree, took off my 
clothes and dived. Then”—Jimmy chuckled—“I 
found what I wanted. The machine lies at the bottom 
of that pool.” 

“No!” Dick was hugely pleased at the success of 
his protege. 

“Oh, it’s there, right enough sir, as Inspector Trant 
can see for himself when I lead him to the place. The 
wheel-marks are plainly to be seen in the mud on the 
margin of the pool. Besides, I found it in the 
water.” 

“I’ll see about the matter immediately,” said Trant, 
patting the boy’s shoulder appreciatively, “but go on 
—go on. What did you do next?” 

“Dressed myself and began to hunt the wood, 
Todgers helping. The two had skipped, which was 



230 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


lucky for me, as I expect they’d have given me a hot 
time,” said the boy with an uneasy grin. “I didn’t 
find them, but I nosed out, or rather the dog did, a 
bundle of clothes shoved away in a briar-thicket.” 

“I know,” Aileen jumped immediately to con¬ 
clusions, “Wu Ti’s clothes.” 

“No, Miss, Mrs. Jerr’s clothes. And now you can 
see, gentlemen, why I believe that Wu Ti left the 
bungalow in European togs. If he had worn his 
Chinese dress he’d have got rid of it in the wood.” 

“But why did Mrs. Jerr change?” queried Dick, 
puzzled. 

“Oh that is not a difficult question to answer,” 
said the officer, “she assumed another disguise— 
perhaps that of a boy.” 

“Impossible. An old woman of seventy.” 

“I rather suspect, from what we are learning, that 
Mrs. Jerr is less old than she made herself out to be, 
Mr. Hustings. Anyhow, whatever may be her dis¬ 
guise, we can hunt for the Chinaman. He is sure to 
be with him. Did you bring back Mrs. Jerr’s 
clothes?” he asked Jimmy. 

“No!” replied that youth, dryly, “I hadn’t a chance.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean Bill Tyson is wearing them.” 

“Good Lord,” Trant pinched his chin, furiously. 
“I learned at Chelmsford that he had escaped. How 
the devil did he get down into these parts, and why?” 

“I can’t answer the first question, but I can the 
last, if you’ll give me a moment or so to speak,” 
snapped the youth, made irritable by his still exhausted 
condition. 

“Go on—go on,” Trant humoured him affably, 
“I am all attention.” 


JIMMY'S ADVENTURE 


231 


“I heard the noise of someone rustling through the 
undergrowth," continued Jimmy, wearily. “At once I 
fancied that Mrs. Jerr and her Chinese devil were 
coming back. I made myself scarce as you may guess, 
by hiding along with Todgers in the middle of the briar 
thicket. Todgers held his tongue. Never a whimper 
out of Todgers; oh he’s a jewel of a dog, is Todgers. 
I used my eyes and saw a short, broadly built man 
push into the glade. He’d a bristly black beard, an 
old cap pulled down over his head and wore a ragged 
suit of clothes, mouldy with age.” 

“Must have got those off a scarecrow,” muttered 
the Inspector, “that is, if the man you saw is Bill 
Tyson.” 

“Oh he’s Bill Tyson all right, although I didn’t 
know it at the moment. He looked about for a few 
minutes and then sat down to eat some bread and 
cheese. I can tell you,” said the boy, plaintively, 
“that the sight of food made me jolly envious. Lord, 
how hungry I felt. Anyhow, this tramp ate up every 
crumb, the greedy pig, and then took a drink from the 
pool. I thought he intended to stop there for the 
night, but he lighted a filthy black clay pipe and began 
to move away. All at once his eyes fell on Mrs. Jerr’s 
clothes scattered about, just as I’d pulled them out of 
the bundle. He swore horribly and began to run 
round in a blue funk, peering here, there and every¬ 
where.” 

“He had every reason to be in a blue funk,” muttered 
Trent again, “the hue and cry is out for Bill Tyson.” 

“Well I didn’t know anything about Bill Tyson at 
the time. I only thought that the man was a gypsy- 
tramp, and wondered why he was cutting up rough. 
Anyhow, to make a long story short—for I am tired— 


232 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


this tramp put on the old lady’s clothes. Yes. Petti¬ 
coats, bodice, shawl, bonnet and all—even to her 
black veil—which last he needed badly enough to hide 
his bristly beard. Oh he looked quite the lady when 
he sailed out of the wood,” grinned Jimmy. 

“And you?”—the listeners held their breath, so 
intense was their interest. 

“Well, I wasn’t going to lose those clothes, so I 
held Todgers in leash again, and followed at a safe 
distance. After a time, although it was twilight, the 
country seemed somehow familiar to me. Then I 
remembered, Inspector, that you motored round by 
Fryfeld when you brought me down here.” 

“Fryfeld—were you near Fryfeld?” asked Trant, 
agreeing with a nod. 

“Three or four miles from Fryfeld; but I am quick 
at remembering places and one thing and another 
gave me the idea where I was. The tramp went 
straight there, and although it was growing rapidly 
dark, Todgers kept track of him: as a dog could 
where a man couldn’t. He skirted the village and went 
round about to Miss Danby’s cottage.” 

“How did you know it was Miss Danby’s cottage ?” 
asked Aileen, puzzled by all this accuracy of detail. 

“Inspector Trant pointed it out to me when we 
passed through Fryfeld on our way here,” said the 
boy, smartly; “dark as it was I knew the place at 
once. I saw the man go to the back door and heard 
him knock. Then when a woman opened the door, and 
the light came streaming out, I knew who they were. 
Not by the light, but what they said. He cried, 
‘Jenny,’ and she said, ‘Bill Tyson.’ Then she dragged 
him into the house and shut the door.” 

Jimmy stopped for breath, but Trant urged him to 


JIMMY’S ADVENTURE 


233 

continue. “Don’t stop at the most interesting part, 
boy.” 

“Let me get my breath,” protested the youth, half 
laughing and half angry. “I do feel jolly tired. 
Well, I sneaked up to listen, as, remembering all that 
had been told me, I knew Bill Tyson was Jenny’s 
lover.” 

“That’s why he came down to Essex,” said Aileen, 
“but how did he induce Jenny to go away with him?” 

“He didn’t, Miss More: it was Jenny who got him 
to go with her. I could hear more or less plainly what 
the two were talking about, as I was near the window, 
and they didn’t lower their voices. She asked him 
how he escaped, and he told her that he’d chucked 
himself out of the train.” 

“Yes!” said Trant, admiringly, “a smart and 
daring chap is Tyson. He was taken from Penton- 
ville to give evidence against a pal at Colchester, and 
on the way he stunned the warder in charge, and threw 
himself out of the railway carriage. Luckily for him 
the train was slowing down to a local station at the 
time, so he wasn’t killed.” 

“Only bruised a bit, as he told Jenny,” continued 
the boy, “he then cut across country, making for 
Fryfeld, and stole the clothes off a scarecrow ; stole 
food also, and tobacco, by breaking into a village shop 
on the way. Jenny told him it wasn’t safe for him to 
remain in the cottage as it was being watched.” 

“Kemp!” grunted the Inspector, nodding, “he 
doesn’t seem to have done his duty.” 

Jimmy went on with his interesting story: “Jenny 
suggested that she and Bill should go to Old Wung’s 
den, and see if he couldn’t get them both out of the 
country. Tyson agreed, so after a time they came out, 


234 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


and sneaked by by-paths to take the London train at 
Cornby.” 

“Why didn’t you follow them?” questioned Dick, 
sharply. 

“Because I wasn’t sure of myself, and also wanted 
to give the Inspector here the credit of capturing the 
lot. I believed not only Jenny Walton and Bill 
Tyson will be found in Old Wung’s place, but Mrs. 
Jerr and Wu Ti.” 

Trant shook the boy’s hand warmly. “Good lad! 
good lad. But if Wu Ti has discarded his Chinese 
dress he won’t risk going to Wung’s den, knowing that 
he may be searched for amongst his countrymen.” 

“Oh, he’ll go there, sir—if only to smoke opium.” 

Dick looked up. “Would a respectable old lady 
like Mrs. Jerr go also?” 

“Is she respectable?” queried Jimmy, meaningly. 
“I think when we learn who Mrs. Jerr really is, we 
won’t find her so respectable as you think.” 

“Eh—what—what—what?” Trant jumped up in 
a nervous hurry. 

“My imagination again, sir,” said Jimmy, dryly: 
the accusation had rankled, “but it wouldn’t be a bad 
idea to test its truth or falsity by going to White¬ 
chapel,” and he chuckled mischievously. 

“I can’t think that Tyson would risk going there 
—into the lion’s jaw.” 

“I have heard,” observed the youth, sententiously, 
“that the only way to avoid danger is to walk right 
into it.” 

“I hope you are right,” muttered the officer, “I’ll 
visit Wung to-morrow; but to-night I must see Mr. 
Chane—I mean Mr. More—about Rackham. He’s 
gone to Town.” 


JIMMY’S ADVENTURE 


235 


“How do you know that, Trant?” 

“I saw him boarding a train at Chelmsford and 
recognized him by the scar you described, Mr. 
Hustings. He was off before I could question him. 
Pity, as it’s time lost. I want to know of Slanton’s 
doings in France. Somehow I think that the truth of 
all these matters is to be found there.” 

He was turning to go when Mrs. Webb bustled into 
the room with a post-card. “For you, Miss,” she said, 
handing it to Aileen, “it arrived by the second morning 
post, and went clean out of my head. Sorry, Miss.” 
Aileen read the card as Mrs. Webb bustled out again 
—read it slowly, as both the writing and the spelling 
were execrable. “From Jenny,” she said, and read it 
out. It was brief and to the point: 

“Dere Mis, Ailin,” wrote Jenny laboriously, “Bil 
hev kom, for me, and i am gowin witth Bil. Ef 
ther’s troubble, i kan ’elp, es i ses. Putt the troubble 
in the nospipirs, and i shell twigg. Yor Afextonite 
Jenny.” 

“What’s the address,” Trant took the card, “none— 
post-mark—Whitechapel—dated yesterday. Oh she’s 
gone to Wung’s crib sure enough. Tyson with 
her, I’ll bet. Mr. Hustings, we’ll visit that place to¬ 
night.” 

“Cheerio!” cried Jimmy, who had picked up that 
word from a soldier, “me too.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 

At Chelmsford the Inspector prepared the way for 
the success of the adventure by telephoning lavishly 
to Scotland Yard. This proceeding interested Jimmy 
enormously, as it implied his indirect connection with 
the C.I.D., and incidentally opened the path to pre¬ 
ferment. He determined that his doings in the Fryfeld 
murder case should serve as credentials to impress the 
august heads of the Department with a full sense of 
his worth. The public praise could be given to Trant, 
but the private approval was to be for him alone, so 
that he might be elected a humble member of the 
profession so dear to his soul. Not that the boy in¬ 
tended to remain in the lower ranks of that detective 
army, which wages incessant war against the criminal 
classes. No! Once his foot pressed the first rung 
of the ladder, Mr. James Took was positive that he 
would ascend with the rapidity of a saint to heaven. 
He had a great opinion of his capabilities, had Jimmy. 

For this reason the neophyte had clamoured for 
inclusion in the adventure, and had achieved his pur¬ 
pose in the face of troublesome objections. Aileen 
pointing out how tired and shaken he was by his late 
efforts, used all her persuasive powers to retain him in 
Wessbury. But in vain. This was the flood-tide in 
Jimmy’s affairs which would float him on to fame and 
fortune, as he argued in his own logical mind. There- 
236 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 


237 


fore he resisted female blandishments with the courage 
of an embryo St. Anthony, and # braced himself for 
strenuous happenings. The mere thought of sharing 
in the peril—for peril there surely was—sent a surge of 
fresh vitality through his wearied young body. It 
was an alert, observant, bright-eyed youngster, who 
stepped into the train at the heels of Dick and the In¬ 
spector. 

As the trio had a first-class compartment all to 
themselves, Trant requested his young companion to 
repeat his story, lest any detail should be overlooked. 
Jimmy, whose memory bordered on the miraculous, 
gave it out again, word for word as before, glancing 
slyly from one listener to the other. “Have you left 
out anything important, youngster?” asked Trant, 
when the thrice told tale was ended. 

“Nothing that matters at the present moment, sir,” 
said the boy, blandly. 

“But later-?” 

“When later comes, the rest will come.” 

“The rest of what?” 

“Of my story.” 

“Then you are not telling me everything,” scolded 
the Inspector, irritably. 

“Everything you need know just now, sir,” fenced 
Jimmy, artfully. 

Trant looked at Hustings and Hustings looked at 
Trant. Jimmy was a hard nut to crack. “I think 
you should tell the Inspector all you know,” advised 
Dick, seriously, “he may be the means of helping you 
to realize your ambition.” 

“I am sure he will,” assented the youth, just as 
seriously, “he is all kindness.” 

The officer glanced quickly at Jimmy, suspecting 



238 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


sarcasm, but there was no sign of that. “If you 
think that I am kind, why doubt me, by keeping back 
what things are necessary for me to know.” 

“I am not doing that, sir. All that is necessary I 
have told you.” 

“But there is something!” insisted Trant, angered 
by this reticence. 

Jimmy nodded, emphatically, “Something you’ll 
learn all about in Whitechapel.” 

“Why not agree to be guided by my experience?” 

“When the time comes, I’ll only be too glad to be so 
guided, sir,” said Jimmy bluntly, “meanwhile I work 
out my own ideas in my own way.” 

“Don’t be disrespectful.” 

“I don’t wish to be, but— Oh, Mr. Trant!” the 
boy’s voice sounded quite piteous, “don’t you see that 
this is my chance of getting into the detective force? 
If I tell everything now, and you succeed on my telling, 
I shall only be a jackal to your lion, and will have no 
opportunity of showing what I can do.” 

“Nonsense,” said Trant, brusquely, “you’ll be 
given all the credit your sharpness demands. That is 
only fair. I am a just man, if nothing else.” 

“You are more than just, sir, for you have treated 
me like a gentleman, putting up with my way of 
doing things. There’s more humanity than red-tape 
about you, Inspector,” said Jimmy, in his audacious 
way, “and that is why I have told you so much. And 
didn’t I return from Fryfeld, when I might have 
worked on my own, so that you might be in at the death 
and arrest the birds we’re after? I’m only anxious 
to show what I can do, so that the C.I.D. may take me 
up.” 

“Oh you’ll be taken up all right,” Trant assured the 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 


239 


boy, “you are made to your trade, Jimmy—the 
detective trade. I see your point, for I think as a man 
and not as an official machine. All I ask is that you 
will withhold nothing which will lose me the men we’re 
after.” 

“I swear I won’t, sir,” answered the youth, bright¬ 
ening as Trant spoke. “When Wu Ti is in your hands 
you shall know everything.” 

“Are you certain that we shall stumble on Wu Ti 
to-night?” asked Dick. 

“From the moment Mr. Trant said something at 
the inn, I was certain.” 

“And that something?” 

“I shall keep to myself,” was the cool reply. 

“Jimmy!” Dick laughed, “I believe you are prepar¬ 
ing a cinematograph surprise.” 

“You might put it that way, sir.” 

Both the men gave it up. This extraordinary 
youth was as slippery as an eel, so there was nothing 
for it but to let him arrange matters in his own 
secretive way. And the Inspector, being, as he said, 
a man rather than a machine, wished to give the boy 
his chance. “It’s the younger generation knocking at 
the door, as you said, Mr. Hustings,” he declared, 
ending the matter. 

At Liverpool Street Station the three were met on 
the platform by a plain-clothes detective from Scotland 
Yard. He informed the Inspector that Wung’s crib 
was being carefully watched, and that all arrangements 
had been made to raid the premises when the order 
was given. The quartette then bundled .into a taxi, 
and travelled swiftly to Whitechapel, where they were 
deposited in one of the main streets. Camp, the plain¬ 
clothes official, then took charge, guiding the party 


240 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


down an evil-smelling lane. “I’m glad you’re not in 
uniform, Inspector,” he remarked on the way, “they’re 
wary birds down here.” 

Trant laughed quietly, “I had to borrow a suit of 
Mr. Hustings’ clothes, as I didn’t bring my wardrobe 
to Wessbury. I guessed that a civilian kit was 
needed.” 

Camp nodded approval, and conducted the trio 
still further down the lane, which narrowed into a 
crooked alley, until they found themselves in a cul- 
de-sac, shut in on three sides by tall dilapidated houses. 
Lurking in the shadows loafed a few shabbily-dressed 
watchers, and Camp assured the Inspector in an un¬ 
dertone that a whistle would call the police, waiting 
no distance away. “No need to let Wung know 
what we’re after,” said Camp, cheerfully. “Here we 
are, gentlemen. All serene?” he addressed the last 
two words to one of the watchers and received an 
affirmative reply. 

The man, who had for some time been ingratiating 
himself with the population of this unsavoury quarter, 
knocked seven times at odd intervals at the door of an 
unlighted and apparently deserted house. It was 
opened cautiously by a wrinkled, malignant-faced, old 
Chinaman, in his national dress, carrying a smoky 
petroleum lamp, which he held high above his head to 
scrutinize the visitors. A few words from the watcher 
assured him that this was a party of sight-seers, 
touring the underworld, whose curiosity meant money 
to its inhabitants. Wung—for this was the proprietor 
of the opium-den—demurred a trifle, but ultimately 
admitted all five men. He led them along a dingy, 
narrow, crooked passage, to a staircase; and thence 
down to a tolerably large cellar, with three doors, set 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 


241 


between lines of bedded bunks, arranged one above the 
other round the walls, up to the ceiling. 

In these bunks, men of several nationalities were 
lying: some completely under the influence of opium, 
others recovering from its effects. The stone floor 
was raggedly matted; and scattered here and there 
were small stools and squat tables, scarcely higher. 
The atmosphere was hot and clammy: thick with the 
smoke of many lamps, and sickly with the acrid smell 
of opium. A lean Chinaman, hunkering down before 
one of the tables, was preparing his pipe by twirling 
the gummy stuff on a spatula, which he held in the 
tiny flame of a tiny lamp. He glanced up, indiffer¬ 
ently, when the visitors entered, and as indifferently 
glanced down, intent upon his occupation. 

“Wantchee, dlink^’ queried Wung, with his long- 
nailed fingers snuggling in the wide sleeves of his 
blouse, and blinking hospitably through huge horn¬ 
rimmed spectacles. 

'‘No!” said Trant shortly, and began to walk 
round and round the cellar, peering into the faces of 
sleeping and waking men. 

Camp saw Wung make an uneasy movement, which 
hinted that his suspicions were aroused, and secretly 
tugged the sleeve of the watcher. Immediately the 
man slipped out and up the stairs, so stealthily as to 
be unobserved by anyone. “Smokee opium!” asked 
Wung, blandly, but coughing loudly. 

“Stop that,” cried Camp, guessing that it was a 
signal. 

“Allee lightee!” murmured the old creature, and 
shuffled in his padded shoes towards one of the doors. 

“Come back!” Trant not only commanded, but 
dashed forward to grip the man’s arm and enforce 


242 THE WHISPERING LANE 

his command, “Quiet now!” for Old Wung wriggled 
violently. 

“You no fliends,” screamed Wung, struggling with 
amazing strength for one so old and apparently feeble. 

“P’lice chop!” shrilled the lean Chinaman preparing 
the pipe, and rose, feeling swiftly for his knife, only to 
be checkmated by Hustings. 

“Hands up!” shouted Dick, whipping out his service 
revolver, and the savage-looking Oriental obeyed with 
a vicious snarl. 

“Follow me! Follow me!” breathed Jimmy in 
Camp’s ear, and made for the door towards which 
Old Wung had moved earlier. 

Before the detective could do this a horde of police 
came pouring down the narrow stairs, much to the 
comfort of Trant. The whistle had been blown by 
the watcher, under Camp’s orders, and the house was 
surrounded in the nick of time, seeing how pressing 
was the danger of a rough and tumble fight. While 
the invaders swarmed into the cellar, tumbling the 
opium-smokers wholesale out of the bunks, Trant 
shook Wung violently. “Wu Ti! Where is he?” 

“No hab got,” squeaked the Chinaman, sullenly. 

“And Tyson—the girl, Jenny. Come now?” 

“No hab got!” 

Piercing through the uproar of resisting smokers 
and assaulting police, a loud and shrill cry from 
Jimmy, now through the doorway, caused the Inspector 
to pitch Wung into the arms of the nearest policeman. 
A moment later, he was in the adjoining room, to see 
the boy struggling with Jenny Walton, and Tyson 
entrenched behind a table, topped with three chairs. 
The burglar was raging furiously, in his accustomed 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 


243 


garb as an East End tough, and levelled a revolver 
at the new-comer. Up shot Trant’s hands, for he was 
completely at the mercy of the ruffian. The next 
instant Tyson was at his mercy, for Jimmy, escaping 
from the girl’s hands, crawled under the table to sweep 
the man’s legs from under him. Crack went his re¬ 
volver, but the shot expended itself harmlessly in the 
ceiling. Immediately Trant closed with him, while the 
girl clawed the Inspector’s back, hampering him sorely. 
Again Jimmy came to the rescue, pulling Jenny back¬ 
ward on to the floor, whence she spat out venomous 
words. Regaining her feet, she leaped upwards to the 
hanging lamp and dashed out the light. 

“The roof, Bill, the roof!” screeched Jenny, groping 
with out-spread arms in the darkness. “I’ll hold the 
blinking cop. Ahrr! I’ve got yer!” and she launched 
herself through the gloom on to Trant’s back with such 
accuracy and force as to knock him sideways, thus 
releasing the burglar. 

t “Y’ come along o’ me,” bellowed Tyson to his doxy, 
slipping eel-like out of the officer’s loosened grip and 
making for an inner door. But Jimmy’s keen young 
eyes had espied that door earlier, as the only safe 
exit for the pair and Jimmy was watching expec¬ 
tant by that door. “Blarst y’—lemme go!” snarled 
Tyson, as the boy closed with him, and easily tossed 
his feather-weight assailant, aside. “Jenny! Jenny! 
Get on with it, y’ bitch!” 

“I’m cornin’—-cornin’!” gasped the girl, shuffling 
towards the voice, just as a policeman dashed in with 
a lamp. The light revealed the door, and like light¬ 
ning, she and her man placed it between themselves and 
their pursuers. 


244 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Hurt, laddie ?” inquired the Inspector, rising at 
the same moment as Jimmy, who was feeling his head 
with a confused expression. 

“Shaken a bit, sir. Come on! They’re making 
for the roof !” 

Even as he spoke a Chinaman, snaked in from the 
outer cellar, twisted through the disorderly group of 
constables and darted towards the door. He opened 
and closed it with incredible dexterity, but, scarcely 
less rapid in his movements, Jimmy pulled it wide 
again. “Wu Ti!” cried the boy, exultingly, and be¬ 
gan to climb a steep staircase, with the Inspector and 
his underlings streaming at his heels. 

“Hurry! Hurry!” panted Trant, as they followed 
hot-footed in the dark, “I would not have anything 
happen to that lad for a kingdom. Torches!” 

Half a dozen beams of light flashed out immediately, 
to show Jimmy disappearing into a bare corridor. 
Along this the officers rushed with confidence, now 
that many lights revealed their surroundings. Up an¬ 
other flight of stairs they stormed, and along another 
passage. Then through several rooms, all bare, dirty, 
unfurnished, dusty, they surged in tumultuous dis¬ 
order. Afterwards the trail led them up more stairs, 
along more corridors, through more rooms, so endless, 
so confusing, that the place resembled a rabbit-warren. 
Finally the pursuers, climbing up a ladder through a 
trap-door, found themselves on the roof, four stories 
above the street level. “This way—this way—this 
way,” chanted Jimmy’s voice, exultingly, from the 
near distance. And in the luminous starlight, Trant 
caught a glimpse of him scrambling up the slanting 
slates with the activity of a squirrel. 

Then began a nightmare chase, dimly lighted by 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 


245 


stars and torches. In their heavy boots, the police 
slipped and slithered on the steep roofs, stumbled 
perilously along the narrow gutters, clambered to the 
ridge of one slope, to slide down the declivity of an¬ 
other, as they jostled and pushed their way from 
house-top to house-top. The Chinaman could not be 
seen but Jenny and her mate were visible, squirming 
their way, monkey-fashion, to safety. Occasionally 
they stopped to search desperately for a trap-door into 
the bowels of this house and that; but Jimmy and 
Trant, heading their pursuers, pressed them so closely 
that they had no time for discovery. Finally, they 
were driven to the last house-top at the lane-end of the 
cul-de-sac. 

Here, perched precariously on the summit, the 
fugitives turned at bay—made a last stand: Tyson with 
his revolver, Jenny with a knife, which she flourished, 
screaming out insults. “Kim on, y’ crawling swine,” 
she taunted, hoarsely, “Bill an’ me’s ready t’ slit yer 
cussed windpipes!” and then followed a volley of foul 
words, shameless, and cutting. 

“Shut yer jawr,” growled Tyson, giving her a cuff, 
“git daown— Hell!” he ended with a shout of dismay. 

The blow, delivered when the girl was unprepared 
and uncertainly balanced, knocked her off the ridge, 
and her body went rolling down the sloping roof, 
shooting off into mid-air from the slight parapet, and 
falling swiftly to crash, ‘horribly, on to the merciless 
stones far, far below. “Oh, Bill! Bill!” she screamed 
reproachfully, despairingly, and that was the last 
sound which Tyson heard from her lips. 

With a roar of anger the man stood up, recklessly 
and unsteadily on the roof-ridge, cursing furiously, 
firing continuously. Jimmy’s left arm, just above the 


246 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


elbow, stopped a bullet, and Trant swung him into 
safety, only a moment before he began to roll down¬ 
ward to share poor Jenny’s awful fate. By this time, 
Tyson’s ammunition was exhausted, so he flung away 
the useless weapon and slipped down to the leads be¬ 
tween the gables. Here, while wrenching at a trap¬ 
door, as a last means of escape, the police surrounded 
him, and the handcuff’s were on his wrists in the twink¬ 
ling of an eye. “You win!” gasped the burglar 
breathless and became passive. “Dunno as I care naow 
Jenny’s gorn west.” 

“You knocked her off the roof,” rebuked Trant, 
who was binding up the boy’s arm with his handker¬ 
chief. 

“Yer a liar, y’ bloomin cop. I wos tellin’ her o’ 
sorts to hold her jawr, an’ look fur this blinking trap, 
so’s we’d git awaiy.” 

This remark drew the Inspector’s attention to the 
best means of descent, and the strong arms of the po¬ 
lice soon forced an entrance. With their prisoner un¬ 
der guard, Jimmy supported by Trant, and with no 
opposition from the scared inmates of the house, the 
party dropped down, story after story, to the ground 
floor. They found Jenny’s shattered body was being 
carried away on an ambulance, for which Camp’s men 
had sent. She still breathed. “I think you’d better go 
to the hospital also, Jimmy,” suggested the Inspector, 
“and get your arm dressed.” 

“Not me, sir,” said the lad, stoutly, “we’ve got to 
hunt out Wu Ti, who is somewhere on the tiles.” 

“I’m afraid he’s got away, youngster.” 

“He can’t have got away, sir, with the houses 
surrounded. We must find him, and you must take 


IN THE UNDERWORLD 


247 

me to help. Else,” ended Jimmy slyly, “you won’t 
get your surprise.” 

Admiring the boy’s pluck, but doubtful of capturing 
Wu Ti, the Inspector brought his neophyte along with 
him to the raided house. Camp, awaiting orders, had 
allowed no one to leave the cellar, and was lining up a 
motley crew of yellow men, with a sprinkling of 
whites, for Trant’s inspection. Old Wung, accepting 
his fate philosophically, hunkered in a corner, smoking 
placidly, while Hustings caught the Inspector’s arm 
immediately he entered, “Have you got Wu Ti?” he 
demanded anxiously. 

“I think that bird has flown, sir. We’ve captured 
Tyson!” 

“And the girl, Jenny? She may tell us-” 

“She’s not able to tell anything at present, and per¬ 
haps never will be able, Mr. Hustings,” and he 
hurriedly related the way in which the unfortunate 
girl had met her doom. 

Meanwhile Jimmy waited impatiently at the inner 
door, beckoning them to re-start the chase for Wu Ti, 
“If we don’t catch him the truth will never be known,” 
Jimmy assured them feverishly. 

“Are you sure it was Wu Ti who made for the 
roof?” asked Trant, looking at the sullen line of yel¬ 
low and white faces before him. 

“I can’t swear to it, sir. One Chinaman is so like 
another, that there’s no knowing. But only Wu Ti 
would have been so anxious to escape.” 

A cry came from Dick. “Look!” he said, pointing 
his finger at the man with whom he had struggled— 
the man who had been preparing the opium-pipe when 
they entered. “Jimmy! Trant! Look, look!” 



248 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


They looked, and saw that the Chinaman’s jaw was 
working up and down soundlessly. He stopped im¬ 
mediately, but the mischief was done. “Wu Ti!” 
cried Dick, positively, “I know his trick of working 
his jaws. It’s Wu Ti.” 

“Me no Wu Ti,’’growled the man sullenly. 

Jimmy came forward, leisurely, looked at the man’s 
blue blouse, white trousers, native shoes, at his pig¬ 
tail, at his lowering face, which seemed uncannily life¬ 
less. “It’s Wu Ti,” he said slowly, “and someone 
else!” % 

The lean Chinaman backed nervously, trying to 
cover his face with his two hands. But the boy was 
on him like lightning, gripping his pig-tail. With a 
deft movement, he jerked it forward, and an excla¬ 
mation of surprise came from Dick. With the pig-tail 
came the skull-cap to which it was attached—and with 
this, a mask of gold-beater’s skin, fitting closely to the 
face. Then- 

“Rackham!” cried Dick, falling back in stunned 
amazement. 

Jimmy grinned triumphantly. “Mrs. Jerr’s serv¬ 
ant, Wu Ti; Mr. Chane’s servant, Rackham!” 



CHAPTER XVIII 


AN AMAZING ADMISSION 

Early the next morning Inspector Trant, accom¬ 
panied by Hustings and the boy, travelled back to 
Wessbury with his prisoner. Camp also attached him¬ 
self to the party, commissioned by the Scotland Yard 
authorities to aid the Tarhaven official in solving the 
riddle of Slanton’s death. It still remained one, not¬ 
withstanding the capture and unmasking of Rackham. 
The man, sullen and silent, doggedly refused to explain 
either his own doings, or those of Mrs. Jerr. He was 
as dumb as the Sphinx and as tantalizing. 

This being the case, it was necessary to confront him 
with his master, who obviously knew more about the 
mysterious old lady than he had hitherto admitted. 
Seeing that Rackham had turned out to be none other 
than the pseudo Wu Ti, it was certain that, unless 
More chose to risk instant arrest, he would be forced 
to recant his denial of Mrs. Jerr as being other than a 
mere business acquaintance. The stubborn fact that 
he had permitted his servant to act as her servant 
suggested an intimate friendship, possibly a conspir¬ 
acy. Also, Rackham had disguised himself as a Chi¬ 
naman : a masquerade of which More could scarcely 
plead ignorance. 

Altogether Trant was half-glad, half-sad, when con¬ 
sidering the result of the night’s doings. Glad, as it 
would seem that a clue to the truth of the Fryfeld 
249 


250 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


murder had been found; sad, since that clue somehow 
involved his benefactor in the dreadful business. The 
Inspector had never forgotten More’s ready help in 
the hour of need, and dearly wished to repay him for 
his generous assistance. Here was his opportunity, 
but one difficult to seize. Left to himself, he could 
have, and would have, strained a point to protect the 
old man to whom he owed so much. But, as things 
were, the case was not now wholly in his hands. 
Camp, representing central authority, would assuredly 
not permit the hushing up of a felony upon sentimen¬ 
tal grounds; so it was extremely probable that More 
would have to face the worst. 

And that worst was surely coming to him, as the 
discovery in Old Wung’s den strongly suggested. The 
death of Slanton in Fryfeld—the ghostly happenings 
in Wessbury—the picking up of the scarf-pin in the 
second village, thus connecting it with the first, and 
the identity of Rackham with Wu Ti, which linked 
More and Mrs. Jerr indissolubly: these proven facts 
could scarcely be whiffed away as mere coincidences. 
The kindly nature of the man revolted against the stem 
demand of duty, which was compelling him to deal 
officially with his twenty-years-back patron. 

“The pity of it! The pity of it!” he groaned, pinch¬ 
ing his chin, worryingly, and shaking his head. 

“Halloo! What’s up?” inquired Dick, overhearing 
these sounds of woe. 

The Inspector did not answer immediately, and in¬ 
deed shrank from giving one, unwilling to lay bare 
his troubled mind. Along with Jimmy and the lawyer 
he occupied a reserved compartment in a first-class 
carriage, while Camp and an underling guarded the 
prisoner in the one adjoining. He could thus speak 


AN AMAZING ADMISSION 


25 1 


freely, and finally did so, remembering that Hustings 
was engaged to marry the suspected man’s daughter. 
“I am hoping against hope that More will clear him¬ 
self. He was good to me, so I desire to be good to him. 

But I don’t see—I can’t see how-” he stopped 

abruptly, again shaking his head. 

“Nor do I!” replied Dick, catching the idea. “More 
is up to the neck in it, and will have no easy task to 
explain his doings. I think he is insane, myself.” 

“Why?” Trant looked up with a gleam of hope. 

“Because a sane man usually has a motive for his 
actions, even the maddest. But More—what motive 
could he possibly have to kill Slanton? I ask you?” 

“He did not do that. Slanton was killed at Fry- 
feld.” 

“True. But More, indirectly, brought about the 
man’s death.” 

“No! No! Mrs. Jerr, if you like.” 

“Or Rackham, who disguised himself to serve Mrs. 
Jerr. In either case, More is implicated, and deeply. 
He must be at the bottom of the trouble.” 

“Might be!” Trant flicked an irritable thumb 
against his teeth. “The motive! H’m! What about 
Rackham’s belief that Slanton’s neglect brought about 
the death of his young master? You reported to me 
that he hinted as much. This being so, Rackham-” 

“More, also,” broke in the lawyer, rapidly, “he loved 
his son beyond anything on earth, and therefore would 
be willing to join Rackham in any scheme of revenge. 
But would the two go so far as to kill the man?” 

“They didn’t kill him,” denied the Inspector again, 
“so far as we know.” 

“Precisely! So far as we know, and there you have 
the crux of the matter. Also, admitting any motive 




252 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


for revenge on the part of these men—say the one you 
suggest—what has Mrs. Jerr to do with the affair?” 
Dick, warming to his subject, spoke volubly. “Then 
there is Miss Danby to be considered. Why should 
the body of her enemy be found in her grounds to< 
implicate a woman, for whom these men had no ill- 
feeling? Indeed, Rackham asserted that Miss Danby 
did her best to nurse young More back to health. If 
your theory of revenge is a feasible one, Miss Danby 
must be included as a victim as well as Slanton. No, 
Trant. It is Mrs. Jerr!” 

“H’m! You said a short time ago that More was 
at the bottom of the trouble.” 

“I repeat it and along with Rackham and that 
infernal old woman. But it is impossible, at present, 
to make head or tail of the business. I am floundering 
in a quagmire, Trant—so are you.” Dick clutched 
his head despairingly. “Oh, Mrs. Jerr! Mrs. Jerr! 
Who the devil is Mrs. Jerr?” he chanted, rhythmically. 

Equally perplexed, the officer pinched his chin, and 
his eyes wandered absently to Jimmy, curled up com¬ 
fortably in the corner of the compartment, like a bright¬ 
eyed fox. The boy’s arm was in a sling, and, along 
with some blood he had lost much of his vivid colour¬ 
ing. But his looks were eager as he listened intently to 
the conversation, evidently biding his time to intervene. 
Trant all at once remembered that Jimmy had prom¬ 
ised to tell his secrets when Wu Ti was arrested, 
and reminded him of the fact. “Go on, youngster. 
Who is Mrs. Jerr?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

The officer frowned, “More evasion—more fenc¬ 
ing?” he inquired, tartly. 

“No, sir,” Jimmy sat up alertly and spoke frankly, 


AN AMAZING ADMISSION 


253 


“I know much, but not all. It is this way, gentlemen. 
When Mr. Chane occupied the bungalow, I saw a lot 
of him as he was hail-fellow-well-met with most of us, 
but I saw next to nothing of Rackham, his servant, 
who kept very much to himself and rarely came into 
the village.” 

Trant nodded to Dick, “Webb said much the same 
thing, if you remember.” 

“Oh, everyone thought Rackham something of a 
mystery because he stayed away from the village,” 
went on Jimmy, easily, “worked in the garden mostly, 
and always dodged out of people’s way, I only got 
near him once myself, and noticed the scar on his 
cheek. It was growing dark at the moment and I 
couldn’t see his face very clearly; but I noticed the 
scar and fixed it in my mind, as a mark whereby I 
should know him again.” 

“Why should you want to know him again?” 
asked Dick, bluntly. 

“Because I was suspicious about his keeping him¬ 
self to himself, sir.” 

“That wasn’t any of your business, youngster.” 

“No, sir,” Jimmy turned to answer the Inspector, 
“it was my imagination—my curiosity—my desire 
to find out what people are thinking and doing 
and saying. Rackham puzzled me, so I watched 
Rackham,” ended the lad, frankly. 

“No wonder Mrs. Jerr called you a meddlesome 
brat,” said Hustings, laughing. 

“Oh, she didn’t think me one when she engaged me 
to weed her garden. And Rackham, as Wu Ti, never 
suspected that I had my eye on him, so he didn’t 
warn the old dame. Anyhow, when Mrs. Jerr rented 
the bungalow, I was employed to look after the garden, 


254 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


run errands into the village and clean the motor-cycle. 
A jack-of-all trades, gentlemen, and master of none.” 

“Don’t be too humble,” advised Trant, dryly, 
“you were a master-spy, anyhow.” 

“Oh, I didn’t suspect anything then,” admitted 
Jimmy, wincing a trifle at the epithet which no 
intelligence-officer admires. “At that time, I only 
thought of Mrs. Jerr as a kindly old lady, and Wu Ti as 
a genuine Heathen Chinee, devoted to the Manchu 
Dynasty.” 

“Why that last?” 

“Because he wore a pig-tail, which is the sign of 
servitude to the Tartar Emperors of Pekin. Most 
Chinamen grow their hair like us Westerners now, so 
I fancied that Wu Ti clung to the Old Regime, like— 
like Old Wung.” 

“You must have been reading Wells’s Outline 
of History,” was the tribute Dick paid to Jimmy’s 
display of learning, “get on with it.” 

“Yes, sir. One evening I went back to the bunga¬ 
low, lateish, to get my cap, which I had left behind after 
finishing my work. And—you know, Mr. Hustings, 
how Mrs. Jerr lighted up that sitting-room so 
brightly?” 

“The seven lamps, not mentioned by Ruskin. 
Yes.” 

“Well, the place was blazing with lights as usual, 
and they were flaring through the pulled-down blinds. 
Although it was a sultry evening the doors were closed 
also, so I stole up to a near window to find out, if 
possible, why the two had shut themselves up so 
tightly.” 

“You are a human sleuth, Jimmy,” commented the 
Inspector, admiringly. 


AN AMAZING ADMISSION 


255 


The lad smiled at the compliment. “The blind of 
this window wasn’t pulled wholly to the bottom, so, 
by stooping, I could just get a glimpse of the room. 
As usual, Mrs. Jerr was knitting in her deep arm-chair, 
and Wu Ti was standing beside her talking and gesticu¬ 
lating violently. Then I got a shock, and must have 
made some noise, for Wu Ti turned his face towards 
the window. That was enough for me. I bolted, 
and he never saw me.” 

“What about the shock?” 

“Wu Ti hadn’t his pig-tail on; nor his face—I 
mean his Mongolian face. He was Rackham. I saw 
the scar plainly when he looked towards the window. 
In one hand he was swinging the skull-cap with the 
pig-tail attached to the back, and the false face to the 
front, while he gesticulated with the other. So now 
you know, gentlemen, how I managed to pull the whole 
thing off with one sharp tug. It was a mask.” 

“And a clever one,” struck in the Inspector, nodding 
emphatically. “That gold-beater’s skin, with a trifle 
of oil rubbed over it and a touch or two of paint, 
when clinging to the face would deceive anyone. But 
I doubt if it deceived Wung,” he added, with an 
after-thought, “or Slanton.” 

“I had not heard that name when I spotted Rack- 
ham’s disguise,” said Jimmy, yawning, for he was still 
languid from loss of blood. “What bothered me was 
why he should pass as a Chinaman to serve Mrs. Jerr, 
when he was Mr. Chane’s servant. From that moment 
I began to suspect her respectability: wondering if 
she might not have something to do with the Voice in 
the Whispering Lane.” 

“Why did you connect her with that ?” 

“Well, sir, the Voice was heard for the first time 


256 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


shortly after Mrs. Jerr rented the bungalow. Also 
on several occasions I caught sight of Wu Ti in the 
lane, after dark. He was on the prowl while you were 
calling on the old lady if you remember, Mr. Hustings. 
Finally, although everyone else was scared, he wasn’t, 
she wasn’t. So I made sure that it was a trick. I 
don’t know how it was managed,” mourned the boy, 
disconsolately, “in spite of my searching everywhere. 
Yes! In the trees, up the banks, along the banks, 
even in the mud.” 

“The Voice has ceased since Chane arrived,” 
suggested Dick, using the name most familiar to the 
lad. “That is another hint, indicating Mrs. Jerr 
as being responsible for the business. But her 
reason?” 

“Now we come to theories,” Jimmy shrugged his 
shoulders; “mine is, that Slanton being a Spiritualist, 
the trick was put about to lure him to Wessbury. 
Consider, gentlemen! Of all the many ghost-hunters 
who came, he was the only one who never went away. 
When you mentioned his name, Mr. Hustings, and, 
from Miss More’s description, recognized the scarf- 
pin, I immediately connected Mrs. Jerr with the 
matter. And for that reason I did not say anything 
about Rackham being Wu Ti, until now. I wished to 
make my two and two a very positive four.” 

“If you had told me this when Mr. Hustings 
brought you to my office-” 

“I should have queered my pitch, Inspector,” 
interrupted Jimmy, bluntly, “my idea was to present 
you with a complete irrefragable case, before explain¬ 
ing upon what grounds I built my suspicions. Only 
by working on my own could I get my chance of being 
taken up by you, sir.” 



AN AMAZING ADMISSION 


257 

“Well, you’ve managed that all right, youngster. 
But the case-” 

“Is wholly in your hands now, sir. I step out, 
having no more evidence.” 

“Still your idea—?” 

“My imagination, Inspector. Well, sir, it suggests 
that Mrs. Jerr and Rackham got hold of Slanton by 
using the Whispering Lane trick, drugged him, tattooed 
him, and then carted him in the side-car of the motor¬ 
cycle to Fryfeld. If Miss Danby didn’t strangle him, 
then Rackham, who brought him to the wood, climbed 
the wall when she was frightened away, and finished 
Slanton off.” 

“If so, why didn’t he finish him off in Wessbury?” 

“In that case, Miss Danby wouldn’t have been 
implicated, and undoubtedly it was intended that she 
should be brought into the matter. But, Lord, Lord, 
what’s the use of building castles on sandy founda¬ 
tions,” wailed Jimmy sadly, “it’s all guess-work.” 

“You may guess truly, laddie. What you suggest 
is feasible in the face of .Rackham’s openly expressed 
hatred of Slanton.” 

“All theory—potshots—gropings in the darkness,” 
shrugged the boy, whose master-mind was as insistent 
as that of Socrates, upon the need of absolutely 
truthful knowledge. “What about Mrs. Jerr ? Did 
she know and hate Slanton? Then there is Mr. Chane 
—I mean Mr. More—did he-” 

Dick intervened sharply, “How do you know that 
Mr. Chane is Mr. More?” 

“The Inspector mentioned it at the inn last night, 
sir.” 

“So I did,” grunted Trant, ruefully, “for a little 
pitcher you have uncommonly long ears, youngster.” 



258 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“My ears and eyes and wits are my fortune, sir,” 
said the boy with his usual polite impudence, as the 
train slowed down into Chelmsford. 

On the platform and in the bus there was nothing 
particular about the party to attract unusual attention. 
Prior to leaving London, Rackham had been trans¬ 
formed from an easterner to a westerner: Camp and 
his assistant were in plain clothes, while Trant still wore 
his borrowed suit. When they arrived in Wessbury 
passers-by did certainly glance at them curiously, 
but as they did not put their curiosity into words, or 
action, the five men walked quietly through the village 
and down the sunken lane. Five—because Dick 
lingered behind to see that Aileen did not follow. 
Assured within himself that there would be an un¬ 
pleasant scene, he objected to the girl’s presence, lest 
she should witness the arrest of her father. Unable 
to guess what defence More would make, Hustings 
felt certain that Trant would be forced into such 
drastic action, and he wished to spare the poor child the 
pain of witnessing the degradation. 

“Miss More, sir,” said the landlady, who came 
immediately to meet him. “Oh, she has gone to Tar- 
haven. Went this morning early.” 

“Why?” Dick was taken aback by this intelligence. 

“There’s a letter to explain, Mr. Hustings,” Mrs. 
Webb produced the missive and gave it into his hands. 
“I think a friend of hers is ill—dying.” 

Paying no attention to this prattle, Dick stepped out 
of the inn and read the letter while following Trant and 
his party to the bungalow. Aileen wrote that she was 
leaving immediately for Tarhaven, having received a 
telegram, containing panic information regarding 
Edith’s hopeless condition. “I must be by my dar- 


AN AMAZING ADMISSION 


259 


ling’s bed-side to hold her dear hand as she passes 
away,” went on the hurried writing. “The shame of 
this false accusation has killed her. Oh, Dick, if you 
love me, do, do, do find out who murdered that Beast, 
so that my poor Edith can die in peace. And follow 
—follow quickly. She may live until you arrive. 
I am so distracted that I can scarcely hold the pen. 
My gentle, loving Edith. Oh come, come—come at 
once!” and the woeful epistle concluded with a 
hastily scrawled signature, betraying only too truly 
the tempestuous emotions of the writer. 

Dick felt relieved that the girl should thus have been 
removed from uncomfortable surroundings but re¬ 
gretted the cause. Yet it was idle to grieve. Whether 
Miss Danby was innocent or guilty, she could not live. 
The malignant cancer, accelerated by worried brooding, 
would surely kill her: the sooner the better, so that 
the poor creature might be released from appalling 
pain. Dear as she was to Aileen, the girl would 
scarcely wish her to linger on in agony. Things were 
better as they were. Death promised more happiness 
than life. 

But the wretched woman would certainly die easier 
if assured that her name was cleared. Dick, walking 
down the lane, fervently hoped that the truth might 
indicate the so-called culprit as the inoffensive victim 
of circumstances. The examination of More might 
result in such an admission. But would the man 
risk making that inculpating acknowledgment, if it 
endangered his own safety? And if he did chance 
the revelation, would Aileen welcome Edith’s salvation 
at the cost of her father’s condemnation? In either 
case the girl was bound to suffer. It was with a sore 
heart that Hustings entered the bungalow. Far from 


26 o 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


being bettered by recent discoveries, things were new 
worse than ever. 

In that well-remembered room, wherein Mrs. Jerr 
had sat and knitted amidst the brilliance of many 
lights, Dick found More standing at bay, although, 
outwardly, there was no sign that he considered his 
position so final. The light-haired, light-complexioned 
little fellow, neatly dressed as usual, stood smilingly 
on the hearth-rug, facing his ordeal with dauntless com¬ 
posure. Rackham, backed against the front window, 
stood, still grimly silent, between Camp and the other 
detective; while Inspector Trant occupied a chair, near 
the one in which Jimmy was ensconced. The stage was 
thus set for the concluding scene of Destiny’s tragedy, 
and Destiny’s puppets were interpreting her climax. 
More broke off a flippant speech when the new-comer 
appeared. “Ha, Mr. Hustings, you are just in time 
to hear a most exciting story.” 

“I know it,” said Dick, coldly stern and seating 
himself at Trant’s elbow. 

“And believe it apparently, going by your de¬ 
meanour.” 

“Yes!” 

“What!” More waved his hands with airy con¬ 
tempt. “Rackham’s masquerade—the opium den— 
the girl fighting for her burglar lover, and the exciting 
chase over the house-tops? A shilling shocker of the 
best. Ha! Ha!” 

“You have left out the most interesting detail,” 
observed the Inspector, in dry tones, “Slanton’s 
murder.” 

“Stale news—stale news, I read all about that in 
the newspapers. By the way, Mr. Hustings, have you 


AN AMAZING ADMISSION 


261 

not brought my daughter to listen to these entertaining 
fairy tales ?” 

“Aileen has gone to Tarhaven,” said Dick, gravely, 
“to Miss Danby’s death-bed.” 

More’s face clouded, partly remorsefully, partly 
defiantly, “Poor woman, let us hope she is guiltless.” 

“You ought to know,” growled Trant, allowing the 
man to talk in the hope of catching him tripping. 

“I don’t know. On my honour, I don’t know. 
Why come to me with these tales of Slanton’s death— 
of Miss Danby’s wrong-doing? I know nothing.” 

“Not even why Rackham disguised himself as Mrs. 
Jerr’s servant?” inquired the officer, ironically. 

“Oh!” More heaved up his shouldens and spread 
out his hands in quite a foreign way to intimate igno¬ 
rance, “that is Rackham’s business. Why ask me?” 

“I do ask you!” Trant rose menacingly and ad¬ 
vanced towards the mocking little creature, “and I 
require a satisfactory answer.” 

“Suppose I decline to gratify you?” 

“In that case,”—the Inspector produced a docu¬ 
ment—“here is a warrant for your arrest, as an 
accessory before or after the fact.” 

“Very interesting. Execute your warrant by all 
means.” 

Trant called More’s bluff immediately, “I arrest you 
in the name of-” 

“Wait!” without flinching the cornered man jerked 
away the hand laid on his shoulder, “Don’t be in such 
a confounded hurry,” he glanced towards his servant. 
“Rackham ?” 

“It’s in your hands, sir,” said the man, answering 
the silent question. 



262 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“But you, .Rackham, you?” 

“I am not ashamed of my part in the business, sir.” 

More chuckled, rubbing his hands with glee, 
“Staunch friend. No wonder you were trusted by 
my Roderick,” he faced his accusers. “So you think 
you’ve got me? Not so. If I chose to keep silent, 
you could bring nothing home to me. But I admit 
that Rackham is in your nets. And for Rackham’s 
sake-” 

“No! No!” cried the servant, vehemently, “think 
of yourself, sir.” 

“I think of Roderick,” More drew himself up with 
dignity, and his face became cruelly grim. “All the 
world shall know what I did for Roderick’s sake: 
how a father can revenge his son. You approve, 
Rackham ?” 

“Yes, sir. Thoroughly!” 

More nodded, faced Trant and tapped his chest. 
“You want to know who Mrs. Jerr is. Behold her. 
I, gentlemen, am Mrs. Jerr.” 



CHAPTER XIX 


THE FIRST REVELATION 

After making the astounding assertion that he had 
masqueraded as the long-searched-for woman, More 
glanced delightedly round the circle of startled listen¬ 
ers. To three of these he addressed himself particu¬ 
larly, rubbing his hands with chuckling glee, and jeer¬ 
ing contemptuously. 

“Aha, Mr. Hustings, you little thought that the be- 
wigged, spectacled, gowned and shawled, old knitter 
was your father-in-law to be. And you, you meddle¬ 
some brat, with all your prying, you failed to learn who 
your employer truly was. As to you, Inspector, 
you never expected to find Mrs. Terr in me. Ha! 
Ha! Ha!” 

Trant looked sorrowfully at the impish creature. 
“I never expected to find a criminal in my generous 

friend. And that I should be the one to—to-” he 

stopped short, overcome with honourable emotion. 

“Cheer up!” More patted him on the back and 
spoke kindly, not unmoved by the tribute, “You are 
only doing your duty, man. And I saw from the 
moment you entered how unpleasant you found that 
duty, although you aped the stern official.” 

“There is no aping about me,” cried Camp, sharply, 
coming forward to take the lead, “I sympathise with 
Inspector Trant, as I gather that he owes you a debt 
of gratitude. But, as an officer representing Scotland 
263 



264 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Yard, I warn you, George More, that anything you say 
now will be used in evidence against you.” 

“As if I cared,” retorted the other, disdainfully. 
“Have no fear, you dressed-in-brief-authority puppet, 
I am now going to make a clean breast of all my doings. 
Hitherto I refrained for Rackham’s sake, but as he 
agrees-” 

“I do agree,” resolutely declared More’s accomplice 
without stirring, “what my master and I did was done 
because no justice could be got from the law of which 
you are the figure-head. Go on, Mr. More, tell them 
how we revenged Mr. Roderick.” 

“Willingly, Rackham, willingly, now that you 
consent. Take your seats, gentleman; get out your 
note-books; open your ears.” More wheeled a chair 
round so as to face the company squarely, and sat down, 
markedly insouciant. “Your story, gentleman, is 
interesting, but you will find mine still more so. As in 
a serial it is necessary to capture the reader’s attention 
at the outset, I will follow the example of the cunning 
author,” he paused, his face grew dark, and, clenching 
his hands, he added in deep low tones. “My son, 
Roderick, was—murdered!” 

A thrill passed through Dick. “God! Slanton?” 

“And that woman, Danby.” 

“No!” the young man threw out a horrified hand 
to reject the imputation. “I can’t believe that. It’s 
impossible—incredible.’ ’ 

More drooped his head, sadly, “I have thought so 
of late. But—Rackham!” 

The man stepped forward, followed by the watchful 
detective. “It’s neither impossible, nor incredible, 
sir,” he addressed himself to Hustings, heavily emo¬ 
tional. “I was* Lieutenant More’s batman. When he 



THE FIRST REVELATION 265 

was wounded and taken to the base I went with him, 
being done in with a bullet in the ankle and this,” 
he touched the disfiguring scar. “Dr. Slanton was 
in charge of the hospital, and I saw that he admired 
one of the nurses—Sister Danby, who looked after my 
master. Later I learned that she loved the lieutenant 
and had been engaged to marry him. Mr. More broke 
off the engagement.” 

“Alas I did,” sighed the little man, drearily, “to 
my cost. Had I not done so, my Roderick would have 
been alive now.” 

“I thought that Sister Danby was all right,” con¬ 
tinued Rackham, “especially when the lieutenant told 
me that he loved her and she loved him. He made 
his will in her favour, and I witnessed it along with 
Slanton. I thought that my master would die of his 
wounds, but he picked up when engaged again to 
Sister Danby, and seemed on a fair way to recovery. 
Then”—the speaker gulped—“then he—he died.” 

“Surely of his wounds,” hinted Trant, softly, with 
an anxious glance at More, who had used the ominous 
word—murder. 

Rackham’s stern lip curled, “So it was reported, sir 
—and by Dr. Slanton, who had his own fish to fry. 
Oh, yes—died of his wounds. I don’t think. After 
the lieutenant was buried I overheard that blarsted 
doctor jawing to Sister Danby in a corner of one of 
them French Caffys. Slanton said as she’d poisoned 
my master with some stuff soaking the bandages. 
She said that he’d prepared the bandages although it 
wasn’t his work. ‘And you know well enough why I 
did it,’ says he, ‘you know that if those bandages 
were put on, he’d die. Which was what you wanted, 
so’s to get the money.’ ‘No,’ says she, flurried-like. 


266 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


‘Rats/ says he, ‘we’re both in it, so we better get 
married and share the quids. If you don’t do what 

I tell you,’ says he, ‘I’ll--’ ” Rackham stopped 

short. 

“Go on: go on,” ordered Camp, looking up im¬ 
patiently from his notes, “what else did you over¬ 
hear?” 

“Nothing!” replied the man, bluntly, “a rowdy 
lot of lads barged into the caffy, and my two beauties 
bunked. Next day I was reported fit and sent back 
to the Front. But as sure as God made little apples, 
sir, Slanton and the woman did my master in, to get 
the money.” 

“But Miss Danby, in your hearing, denied that she 
knew about the bandages being tampered with,” 
cried Dick, defending the unfortunate woman. 

“And Slanton told Miss Danby in my hearing, sir, 
that she was jolly well in the know, and deliberately 
applied the poisoned bandages. For the money.” 

“That is just what I doubt,” broke in More, uneasily. 
“I did think as you did, Rackham, when you told me 
your story. But since I have learned that Miss Danby 
looked for me and found my daughter, to offer back 
the money to us both, I think she must be innocent.” 

“I don’t,” growled .Rackham, savagely, “and I 
never shall. She and that devil murdered the lieu¬ 
tenant. To hell with them both.” 

“Continue your story,” said Trant, noting down 
this reply. 

“There is little more to tell, sir. After the war I 
wrote to Mr. More, but, as he was missing, my letter 
didn’t find him. When he returned to England he 
got it, and looked me up. Then I told him what I tell 
you, and we agreed to make Slanton sit up.” 



THE FIRST REVELATION 267 

Camp shook his head. “Better have gone to the 
proper authorities.” 

“What good would that have done?” questioned 
Rackham, derisively. “My young master had been 
dead and buried for months, so there wasn’t much 
hope of learning anything by digging him up. And I 
was only one against two. Slanton and Sister Danby 
would have denied everything. I’d have been laughed 
at, coming forward after months and months, with 
such a steep yarn. No, sir! Mr. More and I took the 
law into our own hands, and sent Slanton to hell, 
where I hope he is now. That’s my story, sir,” ended 
the man, savagely. “Mr. More can carry on,” and 
he stepped back to his former position, the detective 
at his elbow. 

Dick admired Rackham’s vehement fidelity to his 
dead master, but thought, as did the rest, that he had 
carried it to extravagant lengths. “When you were 
told this wild story,” he asked More, disapprovingly, 
“why didn’t you seek out Miss Danby and learn if it 
was true?” 

“Because I mistrusted the woman. I always 
believed that she was an adventuress, wishing to marry 
Roderick for the sake of his money. For that reason 
I refused to sanction the earlier engagement. When 
Rackham told me his story I thought that she had 
carried out her plan of getting the property by inducing 
Roderick to make a will in her favour, before murder¬ 
ing him. I am sorry now that I did not question Miss 
Danby. But what with the loss of my dear son and 
my dreadful captivity, my heart was hot within me. 
I had only one idea—Rackham’s idea—to revenge my¬ 
self on the man and woman who had robbed me of my 
boy.” 


268 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Trant looked pityingly at his friend, recognizing 
how his enfeebled brain had entertained the idea, until 
it attained to such monstrous proportions as to swamp 
his better nature. His paternal love had made him a 
fanatic. “Explain how you carried out your scheme 
of revenge.” 

“The Whispering Lane,” said More, dully, “that 
was the beginning.” 

“A trick—a trick!” murmured Jimmy, hugging 
himself, “I knew it was a trick.” 

“Yes, boy—a trick, but one which you failed to 
discover. Rackham and I wished to get Slanton to 
ourselves in some lonely place, and kill him. The 
question was how to lure him into such isolation. 
Some of you,” went on More, looking from one intent 
face to another, “are doubtless puzzled to know why 
Rackham disguised himself as Wu Ti.” 

Dick nodded. “Yes! And how he managed to 
act his part so perfectly?” 

“Oh that was easy. Rackham is an old soldier and 
for many years was stationed at Singapore. He 
acquainted himself thoroughly with Chinese ways and 
customs; and also contracted their vice of opium¬ 
smoking. To indulge in this freely and escape detec¬ 
tion, he masqueraded as Wu Ti when seeking the 
opium houses of the Far East. Returning home, he 
still continued to do this, haunting Wung’s establish¬ 
ment in Whitechapel. Thence he came straight to me 
one night, to say that he had met Slanton, who was 
likewise a slave to the drug.” 

“And I would have knifed the blighter if Mr. More * 
hadn’t prevented me,” boomed Rackham’s deep voice 
from the end of the room. 

“Naturally I prevented premature revenge,” de- 


THE FIRST REVELATION 


269 


dared More, sharply, “as I wished to have a hand 
in punishing a murderer of my dear son. Engaging 
an inquiry agent I learned all I could about Slanton. 
That he was a spiritualist—that he visited Miss Danby 
in her Essex cottage, where she lived with my daughter 
—how he indulged in coarse pleasures under the rose, 
and how he was disliked in the Plantagenet Hospital. 
Spiritualist and opium-smoker—those two scraps of 
knowledge were sufficient to suggest a scheme. And I 
wished that scheme to include the punishment of Miss 
Danby, since the visits of her accomplice to Fryfeld 
indicated that they were still in league. I would have 
taken Aileen from the woman’s evil companionship but 
that I feared to wreck my plans by letting my daughter 
know that I was alive and in England.” 

“You are all wrong abbut Miss Danby,” insisted 
Dick, angrily, “she is a good woman and rescued Aileen 
from a life of poverty.” 

“I know that now, but I did not know it at the 
time I speak of,” rejoined More calmly. “Well, to 
explain my scheme. It was necessary for me to retire 
into the country and think out things. I bought this 
bungalow when Mrs. Brine’s executors advertised it 
was for sale. Here I learned the sad story of Mrs. 
Brine: how she had lost her husband, how she was 
accustomed to wander up and down the lane crying 
for him. I saw in this an opportunity of luring my 
enemy into my nets. Slanton was a Spiritualist and 
would naturally, like all his class, travel far and wide 
to investigate any phenomenon. I prepared one for 
him,” More smiled cruelly, and stopped to draw breath. 

“But how?” asked Dick, desperately anxious, like 
the rest of the company for immediate explanations. 

“All in good time,” said More, coolly, and continued 


270 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


to tell his story in his own way. “I came down here 
with Rackham under the name of Chane, and lived in 
this house for some time. Then I set about the rumour 
that I had let it to a certain Mrs. Jerr, who had arrived 
from Hong Kong with her Chinese servant. After¬ 
wards Mr. Chane and Rackham departed; Mrs. Jerr 
and Wu Ti arrived.” 

“But your disguise—was it necessary ?” 

“Certainly, if my doings with Slanton were to be 
hidden from the law. I intended to kill him, as I said, 
and wished to make things safe for Rackham and 
myself. It was easy for me to act the part of Charley’s 
Aunt, as at college I had once taken that very role in 
an amateur performance. Also, as Mrs. Jerr, I kept 
myself to myself, always receiving visitors—as I did 
you, Mr. Hustings—seated in my arm-chair, knitting 
incessantly.” 

“You certainly deceived me,” agreed the young man, 
wondering, no less at the subtilty of this long-drawn- 
out scheming, than at the persistence of the steady 
hatred which had engendered it. 

“I deceived everyone, Mr. Hustings. But for yon¬ 
der unscreened window, through which that brat 
peeped to catch Rackham undisguised, you would 
never have discovered what I am now telling you 
freely.” 

“Jimmy’s a clever lad,” said Trant, admiringly. 

“Much too clever for me,” retorted the little man 
dryly. “However, to go on with my story. When I 
settled myself here as Mrs. Jerr, I then created, and in 
a very easy way—The Voice.” 

“How, how?” asked Dick again, exasperated by 
this slow unfolding of the mystery. 


THE FIRST REVELATION 


271 

More’s light eyes twinkled, cunningly. “By wire¬ 
less !” 

“Oh, ah!” everyone drew deep and astonished 
breaths. In a second the ghostly whispering became 
commonplace chatter. 

“And to think that I never guessed,” lamented 
Jimmy, vexed with his density. 

“Columbus and his egg. Eh?” chuckled More, 
enjoying the amazement his announcement had caused. 
“Yes! I brought in science to encompass my revenge. 
Very easy, gentlemen—very easy. A transmitter in 
this room, a receiving aerial with a loud speaker, an 
amplifier, hidden up the hollow trunk of an ancient 
oak, and there you are.” 

“But I searched the oaks,” cried Jimmy, furiously. 

“And found nothing—in the day-time. Naturally, 
since Rackham always removed the instrument from 
the lane after we had given our performance.” 

“So that was why Wu Ti was generally knocking 
about,” muttered the boy, angrily. 

“Rackham, you mean. Why yes.” 

“And you nearly caught me several times, you 
meddlesome little devil,” grumbled the ex-soldier, 
gruffly. “I’d have twisted your rotten neck if you’d 
found out what wasn’t meant for you to find.” 

“What about the Morse blurring your spirit voice?” 
inquired Camp, who had been reflecting, “that would 
have given away the show as a fake.” 

“Now you mention it, so it would,” assented the 
schemer with pretended surprise. “It is no easy matter 
to exclude induction noises, especially from indoor 
aerials. But I worked on a sixty metre wave, sacri¬ 
ficing length, to rid myself of blurring. That limita- 


272 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


tion has not been used—or only rarely used—since it 
came in handy for short distances in trench-warfare. 
Amateurs utilize longer wave-lengths, Mr. Camp. 
Therefore—” here More became aware that he was 
speaking much too technically for the understanding of 
his hearer, and checked himself—“but this is all double 
Dutch to you,” he ended with a sneer. “Let the cob¬ 
bler stick to his last.” 

“Wireless! Damned clever,” murmured Camp, 
undisturbed, “you spoke?” 

“And Rackham. We both knew from the gossip 
about Mrs. Brine, what were the exact words she 
cried nightly in the lane.” 

“But the -tone of her voice?” questioned Dick, 
doubtfully. 

“Oh, I imitated her parrot, who had caught her 
intonation accurately.” 

“Her parrot!” echoed the young man. “Yes! 
I wrote to Mr. Horace Brine about that parrot, think- 
it might have flown back here to account for the 
Voice.” 

More shrugged his shoulders. “Much good that 
would have done. It couldn’t have re-echoed Mrs. 
Brine’s wailings. But it did pick up other sayings 
from her which I heard, when seeing Brine about 
purchasing the bungalow. In that way I caught the 
tone of the woman’s voice—so did Rackham.” 

“I see, you left nothing to chance,” commented 
Camp, dryly. “Go on please.” 

“Well,” drawled More, wearily, “Slanton came to 
my lure in a few weeks, as I guessed he would sooner 
or later. Rackham recognized him when he called 
here after hearing the Voice in the lane. And he 


THE FIRST REVELATION 


273 


recognized Rackham as an habitue of Wung’s house. 
Mrs. Jerr!”—More tapped his chest, lightly, “enter¬ 
tained this welcome visitor: gave him tea, chatted about 
Hong Kong, and—smoked a pipe.” 

“Of opium?” 

“What else? It was necessary to awaken Slanton’s 
craving, if he was to be drugged. I explained that I 
had contracted the habit to relieve my rheumatic 
pains, and usually smoked a pipe before retiring, to 
ensure a restful night. My guest was wholly unsus¬ 
picious, and when Rackham brought in my pipe he 
begged to join me.” 

“But didn’t Slanton regard Rackham as his enemy?” 
asked Dick, recalling what Jenny had said. 

“Of a sort—a despised enemy, having knocked him 
about a few times when they quarrelled in Wung’s 
cellar.” 

“And I let him,” growled Rackham, sombrely, 
“the better to trick him into thinking me a fool. 
And I fooled him proper, by doing some funny business 
to the pipe I prepared for him, which laid him out 
proper. He was like a dead man when he got my 
brand of the black smoke.” 

“And then,” asked Trant, anxiously, “when Slan¬ 
ton was insensible?” 

“I wanted to knife the blighter and bury his blink¬ 
ing corpse in the garden.” 

“A drastic proceeding, which I would not permit,” 
said More, shuddering. “No, gentlemen. Wicked 
as the man was; evilly as he had done to me and mine, 
at the eleventh hour I decided to spare his life. But 
I was determined that the world should know him as 
the murderer he was, and-” 



THE WHISPERING LANE 


274 

“You tattooed that name on his forehead?” inter¬ 
rupted Dick, shuddering as the speaker had done, for 
the whole revelation was ghastly. 

“I did not. Rackham was the operator, having 
learned in Singapore how to tattoo. Cain was scored 
on Slanton’s forehead plainly for all to see. The 
Mark of the Beast!” More rose with a fanatical 
look in his light eyes, and threw up denunciatory 
hands. “And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest 
any finding him should kill him,” he quoted, exult- 
ingly, and with fierce approval. 

Rackham laughed harshly. “But I was jolly well 
determined that some one should kill our blarsted 
Cain,” he grated, “Sister Danby for choice, since she 
was in the know, and would be glad enough to put a 
stopper on his tongue.” 

More shuddered again, nodding. “It was Rack- 
ham’s idea that the villain should be taken to Fryfeld to 
implicate the woman.” 

“You wanted her to kill him?” said Dick, with a 
look of repugnance. 

“I left that to her. If she killed him, well and 
good—he would be dead and she would be hanged. 
If she spared him then the whole wicked story would 
come to light, and both would be punished.” 

“Oh, she did him in right enough!” declared Rack¬ 
ham with grim satisfaction, “I made sure she would. 
And she did; strangled him, as the newspapers said.” 

“You were lurking on the farther side of the wall,” 
suggested Hustings, “Miss Danby told me that she 
heard your footsteps.” 

“She heard footsteps I don’t deny, any more than 
I deny they were mine. But she didn’t know that. 
I brought Slanton to Fryfeld in the side-car, chucked 


THE FIRST REVELATION 


275 


him down on the lawn, and then climbed in through 
the window into the cottage to hide my tattooing tools 
in the place where I meant them to be found, so that 
Sister Danby might be tied up.” 

“You’re a devil!” said Camp, stirred out of his 
ordinary official composure. “What had the poor 
woman done to you ?” 

“Murdered my master, along with the Slanton 
blighter,” snapped Rackham, tartly. “Haven’t you 
heard? D’y want me to pitch the yarn again?” 

More signed that he should be silent. “That’s 
all!” he said, pacing about restlessly, and holding him¬ 
self in as best he could. 

“Not quite!” declared Trant, regretting the neces¬ 
sity of exerting further pressure. “Why did you and 
this man run away?” 

“What else did you expect us to do?” retorted 
More, whose self-possession was fast yielding to un¬ 
controllable passion. “Hustings visited me and from 
what he said, I saw that the Law was gathering up the 
threads to weave a net, in which we might be enmeshed. 
It was necessary for our safety to relegate Mrs. Jerr 
and Wu Ti to obscurity. Rackham cast off hi& dis¬ 
guise-” 

“And took it with him,” suggested Jimmy, mean¬ 
ingly. 

“Clever boy: so he did. But it was in European 
kit that he drove the machine, knowing that the sight 
of a Chinaman doing so would lead to awkward 
questions being asked. I went as Mrs. Jerr and 
finally left that lady-” 

“In the little wood where I found her clothes,” 
finished Jimmy, nodding. 

More nodded also, and savagely. “You have been 




THE WHISPERING LANE 


276 

my evil genius. But for you, all this would never have 
come to light. Not that I mind the revelation. I 
want all the world to know how a father has avenged 
his beloved son.” 

“You sent Rackham to London, after Mr. Hustings 
and your daughter discovered your identity,” remarked 
Camp, ignoring the burst of passion. 

“I thought it best that he should be out of the way,” 
said More, irritably, and striving desperately to con¬ 
trol his feelings, “but I never thought that he would 
be such a fool as to go to Wung’s house in his Wu Ti 
dress.” 

“I thought it was safe, master,” Rackham glared 
at Jimmy, “if only that little devil hadn’t put the 
cops on the trail-” 

“Jimmy had nothing to do with that,” interrupted 
Dick, sharply, “it was Jenny Walton who told me that 
Wu Ti was a customer of Wung’s.” 

“Then I’m glad she’s gone west.” 

“Not yet,” declared the Inspector, “dying slowly, 
but still alive.” 

Camp rose putting away his notes. “Well, that’s 
that. I think we have enough evidence to settle this 
business. My prisoner”—he laid his hand on Rack¬ 
ham—“is here. Yours, Inspector,”—he nodded to¬ 
wards More. 

Trant went through the ceremony of arrest as best 
he could. “I won’t put the handcuffs on,” he mum¬ 
bled, shamed by the memory of past favours. 

More laughed shrilly. “Lord, man, why make a 
song about it. I am not ashamed of what I have done; 
neither is Rackham.” 

“You can stake your life on that,” blurted out the 
ex-soldier, stubbornly. 



THE FIRST REVELATION 


277 


“I rejoice! rejoice! rejoice!” More’s voice leaped an 
octave as he let loose the full flood of his long- 

suppressed passion. “I am the Lord, who set the 

Mark of the Beast upon the forehead of him who 
adored the Beast. Call him no more Slanton, but 

Cain! Cain! Cain! the accursed one who slew his 

brother.” 

“My friend. Steady on!” Trant grasped the poor 
soul’s arm soothingly. 

More shook him off and went on shouting loudly. 
“Behold the Lord, the Lord, who doeth justice, when 
the hands of men wax* feeble and the hearts of the 
wicked are hardened to wickedness. The worshipper 
of the Beast is slain, is slain, is slain. Yea. Yea, 
and in his high place. Sealed to the Beast, he hath 
gone to the Beast. Down, down, fathoms down to the 
eternal burning!” and the crazed creature flung him¬ 
self wildly about the room, crying and gesticulating. 

“Off his rocker!” commented Rackham with grim 
satisfaction, “not for the first time either. No prison 
for the master, I guess. He’s past punishment.” 

“Any motor-car hereabouts?” Trant asked Jimmy, 
hurriedly. 

“The Squire! I’ll get his!” and the boy fled away 
with the speed of a wing-heeled Mercury. 

“Selah! Selah! Let none give voice, when the 
Lord thundereth!” raved on the insane man. “Bring 
up the chariot, that He who reigneth may ride in 
triumph through the hosts of the Philistines. Anath¬ 
ema Maranatha! Anathema Maranatha! The Lord 
cometh to take vengeance. I am the Son, who bringeth 
the sword to smite and slay and spare not. The Son 
who—who,”—his voice faltered, broke; something 
snapped in his brain, and he sagged to the floor, 


278 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


muttering and plucking at his face. “The son—my 
son—Oh, Roderick! Roderick! Would I had died 
for thee, my son!” and the frenzy ended in a burst 
of human tears. The tender father, the brilliant 
scientist, the cruel plotter was now a mere wreck of 
what had once been a man. 

“Thank God!” breathed Rackham, reverently, “he 
has escaped you devils.” 

“You haven’t!” Camp assured him tapping his 
shoulder. “I’ll lay there’s nothing dotty about you.” 

“Who said there was? What about it?” 

“This! You’re the man we want—the man who 
climbed that wall to complete your damnable work by 
strangling Slanton.” 

Rackham looked at the officer long and hard. 
“Prove it,” he said briefly, and shut his grim mouth, 
firmly. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE SECOND REVELATION 

Obeying Aileen’s anxious summons, Dick travelled 
back to Tarhaven as soon as circumstances permitted. 
And these released him sooner than might have been 
expected. More and his servant were taken to Lon¬ 
don, Jimmy remaining behind in Wessbury; while 
Tyson was again in prison, and Jenny in an hospital, 
with small hopes of recovery. Until the culprits were 
brought up before a magistrate, it was useless to probe 
further into the case. The drugging and tattooing 
and transfer of Slanton from one village to the other, 
had been explained, together with the reason for such 
nefarious doings. But, as yet, it was impossible to 
say, positively, who had strangled the man. 

Camp declared that Rackham was the guilty person, 
on the grounds of his openly expressed hatred for the 
dead, and the admission that he had lingered behind the 
wood-enclosing wall, in the hope that Miss Danby 
would kill her accomplice. Climbing over to make 
sure, and finding that the villain still lived, he had then 
done what he always intended should be done. The 
others were inclined to agree with him, although more 
doubtful as to the actuality of this theory. They re¬ 
ceived no assistance from the accused. He- reserved 
his defence, and defied them to convict him. ‘Trove 
it!” sneered Rackham, and relapsed into his impene¬ 
trable silence. 


279 


28 o 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


So it thus came about that shortly after the dam¬ 
natory explanations of the crazy man and his assistant, 
Dick was pacing the waiting-room of the Tarhaven 
Infirmary, awaiting the entrance of Aileen. She was 
with the patient, as a kindly nurse had explained, the 
authorities having accorded her free association with 
her dying friend, who could not be expected to out-live 
the day. The urgent message of Hustings brought 
her from the bed-side, and she entered hurriedly to 
excuse herself from an interview. “I can’t wait, 
Dick,” she protested, when he clasped her in hi9 arms 
with heartening kisses. “Edith may pass away at 
any moment, and her only comfort now is to hold 
my hand.” 

“You must give me ten minutes and hear what I 
have to say, darling.” 

“Impossible! Impossible!” Aileen extricated her¬ 
self from his embrace. “Edith will not die in peace if 
I am absent.” 

“She will not die in peace until she hears what I can 
tell her.” 

“Oh, Dick, have you learned the truth at last?” 
asked the girl, breathlessly. 

“I think so, or what looks like the truth. . There is 
a doubt, but that doubt Miss Danby may do away 
with.” 

“Tell me—tell me quickly. Then we can go to 
Edith and set her poor mind at rest.” 

“Darling,” Dick looked anxiously at the pale, worn 
face and weeping eyes of the girl, “are you strong 
enough to bear further trouble?” 

Aileen sank tremblingly into a chair. “What is it?” 
she inquired, faintly, “I can bear anything so long as 
it will prove my poor Edith’s innocence.” 


THE SECOND REVELATION 


281 

“Even if that innocence is proved at the expense of 
your father’s safety?” 

“Dick!” she put out a shaking hand, as if to ward 
off a blow. 

“My poor girl,” he knelt beside the chair and put 
his arms round her, “I would spare your feelings if I 
could, and especially at this moment, when you are 
being tried to the uttermost. But you asked me in 
your letter to learn the truth, so that Miss Danby could 
die in peace. And the truth-” 

“Dick! Dick! My father didn’t—didn’t-?” 

“No! No!” the young man soothed her gently, 
“his hands are free from blood. He spared Slanton, 
although he intended to kill him. Rackham, it would 
seem, took the law into his own hands, and-” 

“But what have Rackham and my father to do with 
the matter?” she interrupted, bewildered. “I don’t 
understand.” 

Dick soon made her understand, unwilling as he 
was to be explanatory at so strained a moment. Hold¬ 
ing her tightly in his arms, so as to afford her what 
strength he could from the comfort of his embrace, he 
swiftly but carefully reported the doings in Wung’s 
cellar, the tragedy of the roof-chase, and the confes¬ 
sions made in the Wessbury bungalow. It was im¬ 
possible to soften the hard facts, much as he wished 
to spare her, since nothing but the naked truth availed, 
if the crooked matters of the case were to be straight¬ 
ened out. So Dick told her everything with uncom¬ 
promising frankness, believing that the girl was staunch 
enough to face the terrible realities bravely. His be¬ 
lief was wholly justified. Aileen, not interrupting, 
and ceasing to tremble, heard him to the bitter end in 
still silence. “Is that all?” 





282 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Isn’t it enough?” 

“More than enough. But—but you are not—not 
keeping anything—back ?” 

“No! I rate your courage too highly for that, 
darling.” 

“My poor father—my poor Jenny. Oh it’s horrible! 
horrible!” and she covered her face with two trembling 
hands, shaken again for the moment. 

“Dear!” he drew down the hands, “you have heard 
the worst and faced the worst like the splendidly plucky 
girl you are. Don’t give way now. What is past is 
terrible—still it is past.” 

“But the present comes from that past. Is it less 
terrible ?” 

“I think so. We cannot undo what has been done. 
But it is possible to settle things for a brighter and 
calmer future.” 

“Edith will die.” 

“Yes, and peacefully, when she hears that her name 
is cleared. Would you wish her to live, when living 
means hourly agony from her disease?” 

“No! And yet-” 

“Dearest, believe me it is better so. Apart from 
her present suffering, the tragedy of that poor creature’s 
life is so dreadful that she will be glad to rest peacefully 
in the loving arms of the Great Father. Jenny too, 
will die, and that also is a mercy, disguised though it 
may be. At the best she could only survive as a help¬ 
less cripple, a burden to herself and others.” 

“But my father!” said Aileen in low tones, and with 
her eyes on his face. 

“Ah, that is the greatest tragedy of all,” mourned 
the young man, “there is nothing so terrible as to 
witness the weakening of a strong will: the wrecking 



THE SECOND REVELATION 283 

of a powerful brain. Yet I am glad that, in this case, 
it should be so.” 

“Glad!” the girl’s face flamed, and with a movement 
of indignation, she would have released herself, but for 
her lover’s restraining arms. 

“Think, my dearest!” he urged, tenderly, “your 
father lost all interest in life when his son died, until 
Raekham’s story awakened the evil impulse of revenge. 
Now that the revenge has been accomplished, there is 
nothing left for your father to live for. And, in a 
way, he is not to blame, since he cannot be held re¬ 
sponsible for his actions. The loss of Roderick—the 
sordid captivity in Germany—the horrors of the Rus¬ 
sian wanderings and the knowledge of his return, 
that his beloved son had been murdered. Can you 
wonder that his brain gave way under sufferings, which 
would have shaken the reason of a stronger man? 
He was mad when he plotted Slanton’s death—Miss 
Danby’s complicity; but until these things were 
brought about as he wished, he did not betray his mad¬ 
ness. Now it is apparent. He is a babbling child, 
forgetful of all.” 

“Poor father—poor father.” Aileen burst into 
tears. 

“Yes, poor father, but also happy father, since he 
now remembers nothing of the past. All horrible 
memories are wiped out. He believes that Roderick 
is alive—that Roderick is coming to see him. Aileen, 
it might be worse.” 

“Yes!” she buried her tearful face in his shoulder, 
“but, oh, the pity of it.” 

“The pity of it is most deep, my darling. Let us 
leave him in God’s hands, for He knows the frailty of 
His children, and therefore is merciful.” 


284 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


There was silence for a few minutes, while the tor¬ 
mented girl cried quietly, as Dick smoothed her hair, 
patted her gently on the back, and pressed her lovingly 
to his sheltering breast. Finally, Aileen raised her 
head, drying her tears to kiss him gratefully for his 
comfortable words, and rose to face those things, 
which, in this work-a-day world, have to be faced. 
“We must see Edith, and ease her mind,” she said, 
with a pathetic attempt to appear business-like. “I’ll 
get permission for you to come to her bed-side!” and 
she was gone from the room in the twinkling of an 
eye. 

Dick felt very weary, very ancient, both physically 
and mentally. The soothing of Aileen, the minute 
attention he had given throughout many woeful hours 
to the conduct of the case, and the long perplexing 
pursuit of the criminal—these doings had depleted 
his vitality. Yet, from old habit of the mind, so 
deeply rutted had it become, his tired brain began to 
grapple with the problem of Rackham’s culpability. 
Was the ex-soldier innocent, or guilty? Going by 
the circumstantial evidence, it would seem that he 
might be the first. But he might possibly be the last, 
since nothing definite could be proven. The exhausted 
man sat down to muse but nodded and drowsed, until 
he almost slipped away into the restorative realms of 
sleep. Only Aileen’s gentle touch on his shoulder 
brought him back to realities. “Come!” she said, 
beckoning. 

Her lover rose with a yawn, rubbing his eyes to brush 
away the cobwebs of slumber, and followed gladly. 
He wished to get what would surely prove to be a 
painful interview, over and done with. But the meet- 


THE SECOND REVELATION 285 


ing with Miss Danby was less trying than might have 
been expected. She lay straightly on her back, under 
an excessively smooth coverlet, which was drawn up 
directly beneath her chin. Only her pinched waxen 
face was visible, looking small and unhuman amidst 
the darkly grey tangle of her loose hair. Dreading to 
move hand or foot, lest the burning pain of her 
disease should seize her, she could only open her 
sunken eyes in wan greeting. Dick’s generous heart 
went out to the anguished creature, urgent, but help¬ 
less to relieve her sufferings. “I am grieved to see 
your sad condition, Miss Danby,” he said, sympa¬ 
thetically, “and—and—but words are useless, intrusive, 
unnecessary. I only wish that I could help.” 

“You have helped,” whispered the helpless invalid, 
weakly, “you are helping. I ask nothing more from 
you than what you are doing. Oh, you—you under¬ 
stand.” 

Aileen murmured in her lover’s ear, “She means our 
marriage.” 

“Yes! Yes!” Edith catching the words spoke with 
more energy, “that’s it; your marriage. Promise 
me that you will never fail my dear, dear girl.” 

“I promise, although there is little need for me to do 
so,” Dick assured her, earnestly. “Aileen will be my 
wife as soon as circumstances permit.” 

The sick woman sighed happily. “Oh, thank God! 
Thank God that my loving friend will have an honest 
man to protect her from the terrors of this cruel 
world. It has killed me. I don’t know why. I have 
made many mistakes—we all do—but I did my 
best.” 

“We know that, Edith; we know that,” protested 


286 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


Aileen, bending over her tenderly, “both Dick and I 
think of you, and will always think of you, as one of 
our best and dearest friends/’ 

“And not as a—a murderess?” she inquired 
anxiously. 

“Darling, I never thought of you as that. Never, 
never, never.” 

“But the world thinks of me as a—a-” Edith 

could not bring herself to repeat the sinister word. 

“Only for a moment,” said Dick with quiet firmness, 
“shortly the world will learn that you are innocent.” 

“Innocent!” she made an effort to rise, but fell back 
exhausted. “Innocent!” 

“Wholly innocent,” reiterated Dick, voicing Camp’s 
view of the tragedy, although not entirely persuaded 
in his own mind that it was a correct one, “a man 
called Rackham-” 

“Roderick’s servant?” 

“None other! He killed Slanton, because he be¬ 
lieved that Slanton had murdered his young master 
by poisoning the bandages, and-” 

“Stop!” interrupted Miss Danby, struggling up 
into a sitting position and with her voice ringing out 
clearly in manifest terror. “What does Rackham— 
what do you know about that?” 

“Everything! Rackham overheard a conversa¬ 
tion between you and Slanton in a French cafe at 
the-” 

“And Slanton accused me of what I never did,” 
she broke in passionately. “Oh, I remember only too 
well that wicked conversation. It is written in letters 
of fire on the tablets of my brain. It opened the gates 
of Hell to me—that Hell in which I have been tor¬ 
mented for centuries. It was his lie-—-his trap—his 






THE SECOND REVELATION 287 

devilment, to get me under his thumb, for the money’s 
sake. And he did—he did, God help me! Aileen, 
Aileen, don’t hate me. I never—never ” 

“Darling!” the girl’s arms were around the agonized 
woman in a moment, “the whole thing is a lie. There 
is no need for your denial. It was that man, not you, 
who brought about Roddy’s death. Hate you? No! 
No! I love you a thousand times more, if that is 
possible, now that I know how dreadfully, how 
unjustly you have suffered for the sin of another. 
There! There! Lie down again and listen quietly 
to what Dick has to tell you. My dear, my dear, be 
calm. It is all right—all right!” and with tender 
caresses, she pressed back Edith gently on to her 
pillows. 

“But—but Roderick’s death—Slanton’s death. 
You, you surely don’t—don’t believe that I—that I— 
oh, my God!” and the poor soul collapsed, pitifully. 

“Call Sister Tait, Dick. Quick! Quick! Quick!” 
cried the girl, slipping a comforting arm under the 
unconscious woman’s head. 

In answer to the young man’s hasty summons, the 
nurse came flying to the bed-side, to exhibit a wrathful 
countenance at the sight of her patient’s condition. 
Promptly turning out the disturbing visitors, she ad¬ 
ministered restoratives immediately. For close upon 
an hour Aileen and her lover lingered outside the 
sick-room door, fearing to hear every moment that 
Edith had passed away. Troubled in their minds that 
she might do so, before learning that her reputation 
was safe, they looked anxiously at one another, speak¬ 
ing little, thinking much. At length, after many 
dragging minutes, Sister Tait appeared, looking 
tremendously serious. “She insists upon seeing you 



288 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


both to hear what you have to tell her,” said the 
nurse, in vexed tones, “I don’t think it is wise, as she 
may die at any moment.” 

“All the more reason that she should hear my story,” 
insisted Dick, imperatively. “You know of what she 
is accused, Sister. That accusation is wholly false, 
and we wish our poor friend to learn this before she 
goes west.” 

“I am glad!” Sister Tait’s face grew radiant. “I 
never could bring myself to believe that such a sweet 
woman could act so wickedly. Go in, go in, and God 
bless you for bringing her peace of mind.” 

So with Aileen clinging to him, Dick re-entered the 
room. Again Miss Danby lay straightly and immov¬ 
ably under an excessively smoothed-out coverlet, and 
again she greeted them by opening her eyes. There 
was no need for her to speak. Dick knew what she 
wanted to hear, and kneeling beside the bed, with his 
mouth close to her ear, he quietly repeated to her the 
story that he had related to Aileen. There was no 
change of expression on the waxen face. It seemed as 
if she was so far divorced from earthly things, that 
the clearance of her character failed to excite any pro¬ 
found interest. But when the young man ended his 
careful recital, and rose from his knees, life came back 
to the moribund woman in a momentary swirl of 
vitality. 

“Your poor father!” she breathed faintly to Aileen, 
thinking more of others than of herself. 

“Dear!” the girl laid her fresh young cheek against 
the chilling cheek of her dying friend, “his memory is 
gone, but he believed that he had misjudged you before 
it went. Forgive him!” 

“I do! I do, and wish him all happiness. Oh, 


THE SECOND REVELATION 289 


what am I saying. Happiness is not for one who has 
lost his reason.” 

“In this case it is,” said Dick in low tones, “and I 
say this for your comfort. More’s happiness is bound 
up with his madness. He believes that Roderick is 
still alive—he believes that Roderick is coming to see 
him. It is God’s mercy that the poor creature forgets 
the true past to live only in a false present.” 

“God is always merciful. I can see that now in the 
greater light that is coming,” murmured Edith in far¬ 
away tones. “He supported me through the agony of 
years. He is taking me to Himself with the knowledge 
that you and my dear Aileen know me to be an inno¬ 
cent woman.” 

“We always knew that; always, always,” breathed 
the girl, passionately. 

“Darling!” the sick woman’s hand came painfully 
from the coverlet to stroke the pale face of her beloved 
friend, “but how can I explain what should be ex¬ 
plained, in the short time remaining to me. Slanton 
prepared the bandages, which he had poisoned—which 
I applied unknowingly. But for that fatal will 
leaving me the money, I don’t think he would have 
acted so—so wickedly. But his greed carried him 
away. He swore that if I did not marry him and let 
him handle the money, he would accuse me of the 
murder. It was my task to prepare the bandages; 
he therefore would have denied doing so. Oh, what 
chance had I of proving my innocence. But I held 
out—I held out,”—she checked herself, breathing hard 
and fast. 

“Say no more, Edith!” implored Aileen, seeing how 
fast the strength of her dying friend was ebbing away, 
“we know it was the doing of that Beast 



290 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“No! No! Don’t call him that. I did so myself, 
when I knew no better. But now I forgive him. As 
God is showing me mercy, shall I not show mercy to 
him. I am in God’s hands; so is he, who wronged 
me. Aileen! Aileen?” 

“Yes, Edith, yes?” 

“Don’t be hard on Rackham. He must suffer for 
his wrong-doing, if, indeed, he has acted as you tell 
me. But it was ignorance, my dear; nothing but 
ignorance. He did the evil, believing that it was good, 
out of sheer devotion to Roderick. I always liked 
Rackham. I really think in a different way, that he 
loved Roderick more than I did. Yes! Even more; 
although I would have given my life to save my 
darling. He will suffer—he must suffer—but from 
such suffering he will learn the true good. And if 
he—if he—Aileen?” 

“I am here, dear.” 

“It is growing dark. I can’t see you. Put your dear 
arms round me. Yes! I feel happier now. Never 
doubt, my darling girl, never fear; never despair. 
You and your good husband have happy years before 
you. I know it—I feel it. Do good with my 
Roderick’s money—think of others—share your happi¬ 
ness with those who have less. Aileen! Oh!” she 
uttered a musical, astonished cry. 

The cry brought in the nurse, so ft-footed, anxious, 
“Better leave her now.” 

“No! No!” cried the dying woman, the flame of 
life brightening to its last splendid moment, “to the 
end, Aileen: stay with me to the end. But it is not 
the end—it’s the beginning of something more glorious, 
more wonderful. Oh the darkness is going—is gone 
—and the light—the Light!” an expression of intense 


THE SECOND REVELATION 


291 


joy, somewhat awed, brought back her youth—the 
years of anguish dropped down into nothingness, as 
she rose out of Time to Eternity. “Roderick!”— 
she stretched out her arms, radiantly happy. 

“Roder-” then the arms fell, the head drooped, 

and, for a single moment, the peace that passeth all 
understanding pervaded the room. 

“God give her peace,” said the nurse solemnly, and 
drew the coverlet over the still face. 

“He has given her peace and happiness also,” cried 
Aileen, triumphantly, “she has met Roderick again. 
No, I won’t cry, Dick. She has met Roderick.” 



CHAPTER XXI 


THE THIRD REVELATION 

So Edith Danby died, and went to her own place, 
being thus mercifully released from dire troubles, 
which were certainly not of her own making. But 
the evil she was supposed to have done lived after 
her, as—on Shakespeare’s authority—evil always does, 
with its nine lives of a cat. Those, searching out the 
truth, indeed, believed her to be more sinned against 
than sinning, but public opinion still held her to be 
guilty. Furthermore this belief was emphasized, 
when it became known how Roderick More had come 
by his death. The woman had been a monster, a 
vampire, plotting with Slanton, after the execution 
of the will, to secure immediate possession of the 
money by murdering the young soldier. Afterwards, 
it was to be expected that she should have strangled 
her accomplice, since, driven to extremities by her 
refusal to share the plunder, he might have denounced 
her. Oh, it was as plain as plain, said everyone. The 
Danby creature had committed the second murder to 
cover up the first. 

When More and Rackham were brought before the 
London magistrates, and when the extraordinary story 
of their conspiracy was told, the newspapers made the 
most of so sensational an occurrence. Highly coloured 
accounts of this, that, and the other thing, were 
published, morning and evening: fiction poaching on 
292 


THE THIRD REVELATION 


293 


the domain of fact in every paragraph. The Spirit¬ 
ualists were jeered at unkindly, for having permitted 
themselves to be tricked by science-very-much-up-to- 
date, and their later reports, dealing with communica¬ 
tions from the unseen world, were received with more 
suspicions than ever. Whereat the Materialists re¬ 
joiced, deeming that theirs was the victory. 

Jimmy Took, and those with him, who had traced 
the tortuous windings of the trail under such foggy 
conditions, were applauded to the echo. And of 
course, the journals were filled with pictures of the 
scenes connected with the tragedy, and portraits of 
the actors therein. The Whispering Lane, the bunga¬ 
low, the woodland pool, wherein the motor-cycle had 
been sunk, together with reprints of the Fryfeld cot¬ 
tage and its sombre surroundings: these appeared daily. 
Nor were wanting realistic representations of Wung’s 
cellar, of the steep roofs over which Tyson had been 
chased, whence Jenny had fallen, and the sinister 
sordidness of the cul-de-sac. The strange story with 
its picturesque villainy was read with avidity from one 
end of the kingdom to the other. It was almost im¬ 
possible to believe that it was actually true, so sug¬ 
gestively fictional were the details. 

Edith, credited with the commission of two crimes, 
was loudly condemned on all sides, but opinions dif¬ 
fered widely concerning Rackham’s behaviour. Some 
held that he was justified in taking the law into his 
own hands, since an appeal to public justice, on his 
solitary evidence, would have been scouted as heated 
imagination. Others looked askance at his assump¬ 
tion of authority, objecting to private vengeance being 
taken, even for so cruel a wrong. Many letters, for 
and against, were written to the newspapers regarding 


294 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


the moral aspect of the man’s doings. But, on the 
whole, public opinion inclined to leniency. Rackham, 
it was agreed generally, should be punished, but not 
too severely. 

As to More, unhappy creature—nothing but pity 
was felt for his sorrows, for the wreckage of his great 
intellect. It was widely held that he had been irre¬ 
sponsible from the first; that his mind had given way 
at that moment when Rackham revealed the dreadful 
secret of his son’s murder. Therefore it was im¬ 
possible to blame the outraged father, whose reason 
had been unseated by the tragedy of his loss. There 
would be no punishment for More: that was swiftly 
decided, when he appeared before the Bench, babbling 
and smiling in his second childhood. As Rackham 
had said—he was past punishment. It only remained 
to seclude him with every comfort, that he might live 
out his life of imagined happiness. That he had 
sinned was true, but his sin was the outcome of ex¬ 
cessive paternal affection, driven to crazy doings by 
his dreadful sufferings, during and after the war. So 
the scientist also went to his own place. He passed 
from public life into a silent existence, never again to 
mingle with his fellow-men. 

Things were thus unsatisfactory, when, one misty 
November night, Aileen sat with her lover in the 
library of the Fryfeld Manor House. The girl, clothed 
in unrelieved black, only too truly emblematic of her 
sorrowful feelings, looked pale and thin, out-worn as 
she was with the incessant sufferings of many troubled 
nights and days. Dick was scarcely less weary and 
down-cast, although he feigned cheerfulness to com¬ 
fort the poor child. Outside all was blurred, rainy, 
cold, and mournful, but within, light and warmth 


THE THIRD REVELATION 


295 


and colour prevailed so strongly that their influence 
should have heartened the young couple. But numer¬ 
ous newspapers on the table, on the chairs, even 
scattered about the carpet, hinted plainly that the 
reading of these had brought into being the melancholy 
atmosphere of the vast room. A grey atmosphere, 
which subdued the light, darkened the colour, chilled 
the warmth. In the real world they felt unreal, as if 
some invisible barrier shut them off from reality. 

Aileen had implicitly believed, and Dick more 
doubtfully, that, when the tale of the tragedy was told, 
Edith’s name would be cleared. The newspapers 
assured her that this was far from being the case. 
Formerly credited with one crime, now credited with 
two, the dead woman’s reputation was now more 
stained than ever. Not all the waters of the wide 
ocean could wash out that stain: never could what 
had been done be undone—“Unless a miracle hap¬ 
pens,” wailed Aileen, putting her thoughts into words. 

“Eh? What?” Dick looked up from the depths 
of an arm-chair, wherein he had been brooding over 
the contrariness of things. 

“Edith! Only a miracle can cleanse her reputa¬ 
tion.” 

“You may well say that, my dear. Our discoveries 
have only made matters worse for her. I am glad she 
is in her grave, poor creature.” 

“So am I. But I want people to think kindly of 
her.” 

“I wish they would, but they won’t,” responded 
the young man, gloomily. “Everyone thinks that the 
unfortunate woman is guilty—doubly guilty. How 
can x—how can you—how can anyone prove her 
innocence ?” 


296 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


"Yet she is innocent!” declared the girl, fiercely, 
“no one could have died as my darling Edith died 
and not be innocent. And you told her that she was.” 

“I did—I did. I would have told anything, so that 
she might die in peace, as she did, thank God. But, 
in my mind, there is always the doubt!” Dick rose in 
a restless mood to pace the room, feverishly. “Oh, 
my dear, my dear, I only wish that I could silence that 
doubt. But what can be done ? Rackham sticks 
to his story that Miss Danby killed his master; that 
she killed Slanton.” 

“My poor father did not believe the first when he 
learned how Edith wanted to give back Roderick’s 
money,” said the girl, with quivering lips. 

“No! But he is insane—his evidence cannot be 
accepted. Not to him can we look for any statement 
likely to prove Miss Danby innocent. I liked her for 
herself—I loved her for the immense kindness she 
showed to you. I heard her story at a moment when 
the most obstinate nature would speak truly. A 
woman with so many good qualities would not have 
died with a lie on her lips. I believe that she is guilt¬ 
less of your brother’s murder.” 

“And of Slanton’s murder?” 

Dick halted, shaking his head, “There is the doubt. 
She may have killed the man, more or less uncon¬ 
sciously—the opium you know, Aileen.” 

“Oh, that’s ridiculous, Dick. She told her story 
plainly,” said the girl, angrily. 

“She did, and yet—how do we know but what she 
mistook for truth that which was untrue? Remember 
the nightmare confusion of her mind at the moment. 
She hinted plainly that she scarcely knew what she 
was doing. Darling!” cried the young man, with a 


THE THIRD REVELATION 


297 


burst of despairing passion, “for her sake—for your 
sake, I wish to believe in her innocence. But the 
doubt—at the back of my mind, the doubt is always 
lurking.” 

“That doubt will be done away with some day,” 
insisted Aileen, fanatically hopeful, so powerfully did 
her affection over-ride her reason. “I am sure that 
God will not allow Edith’s memory to be smirched.” 

“It is smirched!” murmured Hustings, sadly, and 
resumed his prowling, longing desperately for the 
happening of the unexpected to adjust things. 

“God will cleanse it, then. He can do anything! 
I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed. I know—I 
am positive, that my prayers will be answered.” 

“I hope they will be. B'ut”—Dick looked pro¬ 
foundly sceptical—“the age of miracles is past, my 
dear.” 

Then at that very moment, to justify Aileen’s faith, 
to rebuke the haunting doubts of her lover, the unex¬ 
pected did happen, the miracle really did occur. 
Ever afterwards, the young man explained to the 
satisfaction of himself and others, that it was an 
amazing coincidence. But that was never Aileen’s 
opinion. She held that Providence had intervened at 
the eleventh hour. 

Hardly had the last words fallen from Dick’s lips, 
when the door was flung open violently, and Detective- 
Inspector Trant charged into the room, followed by a 
protesting butler. The officer still wore his overcoat 
and his cap, both wet with the misty rain; also his 
boots were muddy, his trousers splashed, as if he had 
been in too great a hurry to pick his steps carefully 
along the miry roads. He appeared to be in a state of 
scarcely subdued excitement, for, pushing the servant 


298 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


hastily out of the room, he closed the door with a loud 
bang, as if to relieve his feelings. All of which was 
very unlike the usually staid Inspector. “Trant ?” 
queried Dick, as amazed by the appearance of the 
man at this late hour, as at the roughness of his en¬ 
trance. 

“Himself! I apologize for my—for my—for every¬ 
thing. Phew!” puffing out an explosive breath, 
Trant dropped into a chair and pulled out a large 
bandanna handkerchief, to wipe away the perspiration, 
beading his bald head. “Ouf! Phew! Ow! Ow! 
Ow!” he snorted and blew exhaustively. “There— 
there’s news.” 

Before Dick could speak again, Aileen, who had 
risen with shining eyes, parted lips, and flushed 
cheeks, darted past him to lay gripping hands upon 
the Inspector’s shoulders. “I know—I know—it’s 
the miracle!” 

“The miracle?” Trant stopped polishing his bald 
head, and stared. 

“You have come to clear Edith’s character. You 
have learned the truth.” 

“I have. But how can you guess-” 

“I am not guessing! I know—I know. Dick, 
Dick. Didn’t I tell you that my prayers would be 
answered. What is it—what is it?”—she shook the 
officer violently. “Has Rackham confessed?” 

“No! He still sticks to his story.” 

“But is that story true?” asked Dick, shrewdly. 
“Come now, Trant, you didn’t barge in here at such 
a late hour, and in such a hurry, to tell us that?” 

“Who said I did,” grunted the Inspector. “No! 
I came to set Aileen’s mind at rest, once and for 
all.” 



THE THIRD REVELATION 


299 


“About Edith ?” 

“Exactly. She is innocent.” 

“Of course—of course,” cried the girl, impatiently, 
“I never thought otherwise. But who is guilty? 
Quick! Quick! Who is guilty?” 

“Jenny Walton!” 

Aileen fell back a step to cling to a tall-backed chair 
for support. “Jenny Walton,” she gasped, amazedly, 
for this was the last name she expected to hear. 

“Air, Dick—give me air!” murmured the shaken 
girl, turning faint and white, “—air—the door—open 
the door.” 

Hurriedly Dick strode to the narrow door opening 
on to the terrace and threw it wide. The misty night 
air floating into the heated room restored the girl 
somewhat with its chill damp freshness, and she al¬ 
lowed Dick to place her gently in a chair. Then he 
turned to face Trant. “Jenny Walton,” he repeated, 
“why should Jenny Walton kill Slanton?” 

“Cast your mind back to what she told you and 
Aileen in this very room.” 

“Yes! Yes!” the girl caught her lover’s hand, 
drawing him nearer to her, to feel the more his pro¬ 
tective presence, “Slanton sent Tyson to prison. This 
is Jenny’s revenge. Is that it, Mr. Trant?” 

“That’s it. Jenny is dead, and-” 

“Oh, poor girl—poor misguided girl.” 

“But before she died I was sent for to hear her con¬ 
fession. It amounted to this—that she had strangled 
the man who sent her lover to gaol.” 

“But how, when., where did she?”—Dick was im¬ 
mensely excited and stumbled over his words I mean 
in what—what—way?—oh go on—go on.” 

“Pouf!” Trant unbuttoned his overcoat and opened 


300 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


it widely. “I’m hot with running. And at my age 
too. But I only got at the truth early this evening 
in the London hospital where the girl lies, and, knowing 
Aileen’s anxiety, I came down immediately with the 
good news.” 

“You dear!” fully restored to herself Aileen sprang 
from her chair and crossed over to kiss this welcome 
herald of good fortune, “Oh, how can I thank you 
enough for saving my poor Edith’s memory from 
disgrace?” 

“Your thanks are due to Jenny!” said the officer, 
patting her hand. “She was always jealous, as she 
confessed to me, of your love for Miss Danby. But 
knowing—for I told her—how you were suffering be¬ 
cause of that dead woman’s smirched reputation, 
knowing also that she was dying, Jenny told me the 
truth. I took down her confession. She signed it 
and I witnessed it along with the nurse and doctor, 
who were in attendance. Miss Danby’s name is en¬ 
tirely cleared—or will be when the confession is made 
public.” 

“Not from the suspicion that she murdered 
Roderick.” 

“I am not so sure of that, Mr. Hustings,” rejoined 
Trant, argumentatively. “A great many people think 
that she is guilty of the first crime, because they believe 
on the evidence adduced that she is guilty of the 
second. Now that she has been proved innocent of 
the second, it is more than probable that they will 
reconsider things, and credit her with being innocent 
of the first. Also Miss Danby’s desire to return the 
money to Aileen and her father takes away any motive 
for her killing Roderick.” 

“Just what I think!” Aileen assured the speaker, 


THE THIRD REVELATION 


3 01 

and squeezing his hand, thankfully. “You are a com¬ 
fort!” 

“But how did Jenny kill Slanton?” demanded Dick, 
brusquely. 

Trant explained in his methodical way, “Slanton 
was hoisted on his own petard, I fancy. He employed 
Jenny to spy upon Miss Danby, both to gain his own 
ends and to provide the girl with a situation. As he 
had sent her lover to prison he owed her something, 
remember:—there lives some soul of good in all things 
evil, you know. Anyhow, whatever was his reason, he 
set the girl to watch her mistress. On that fatal night, 
Jenny heard Miss Danby leaving her room, and, 
according to instructions got up to watch her. She 
saw the woman go out with the lighted candle towards 
the insensible man lying on the lawn, saw her also drag 
him into the wood. Jenny followed stealthily, and 
when Miss Danby fled in a panic, came out of her 
hiding-place in the bushes to see who the man was. 
It was easy for her to recognize Slanton’s voice, as he 
babbled, crazily, about the Whispering Lane—about 
More and Wessbury. Finding the man who had 
ruined her lover at her mercy, she killed him—strangled 
him deliberately, as she admitted to me with great 
satisfaction. There was no repentance about Jenny,” 
ended Trant, positively. “She thought that she had 
done well to rid the world of a black villain, an out and 
out swine, as she called him.” 

“Oh, Jenny, poor, foolish Jenny,” mourned Aileen, 
remembering the girl’s good qualities. 

“Did Rackham know all this? He was on the 
farther side of the wall, remember.” 

“No, Mr. Hustings. Jenny heard someone moving 
on the road and climbed up to see who it was, quite 


3 02 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


prepared to battle with any watcher. Rackham 
heard the noise she made and immediately jumped on 
his motor-cycle to fly. Then Jenny, satisfied that she 
was safe, returned to the house, slipping in through 
the back window into her bedroom.” 

Aileen wrung her hands, “Oh, why didn’t she tell 
me all this, to save Edith?” 

“Because she didn’t want Miss Danby to be saved, 
my dear. On the contrary, being madly jealous of 
the friendship between you and your friend, she was 
quite willing to see her mistress arrested, and tried, 
and hanged. Also, she had her own safety to con¬ 
sider.” 

“Oh, no, no, Jenny wouldn’t wish to harm Edith 
so terribly.” 

“But she did,” cried Dick, grimly, “the girl was 
nothing but a primitive animal, as her cold-blooded 
murder of Slanton shows plainly. Her one humaniz¬ 
ing influence was her love for Tyson—her cave-mate.” 

“And her love for me, Dick*.” 

“There was nothing particularly human about that, 
I fancy, since it led her to kill Slanton and keep silent 
so that Miss Danby might suffer. It was the jealous 
passion of a cat, or a dog—a destroying, selfish love. 
Jenny was a cave-woman, Aileen, ignorantly evil with 
a spark of good in her make-up.” 

The girl returned to her seat, thankful to the core 
of her being, but pale with emotion*. “How awful 
father’s revenge has been,” she said in low tones. 
“Dr. Slanton dead—Edith dead—Jenny dead. If he 
had not plotted-” 

“If Slanton had not plotted, you mean, Aileen,” 
struck in the Inspector. “He was hoisted on his own 
petard I tell you. Roderick’s death, his own death, 



THE THIRD REVELATION 


303 


and the death of Miss Danby and Jenny—these were 
due to him alone. He brought into being the cause 
which produced such terrible effects.” 

Dick nodded, “ ‘He digged a pit and fell into it him¬ 
self,’ as the Bible says,” he remarked, and looked 
meaningly towards Aileen to emphasize his next words, 
“and now that everything is explained, let us have 
done with all these troubles and do our best to forget 
them.” 

“It is not easy to do that,” sighed the girl, sadly, 
“my father-” 

“He is quite happy,” interrupted the Inspector, 
swiftly, “never trouble about your father, my dear. 
He will be placed in a comfortable asylum and looked 
after kindly. In his madness, lies his happiness. I 
would not cure him if I could. It would be cruel to 
rob him of his delusion that Roderick is alive.” 

“Perhaps you are right. I hope so; oh, I hope sof 
Then there is Rackham?” 

“Oh, I fancy he will get a year or so in gaol. There 
is no blood on his hands, remember. Though maybe,” 
went on the officer with an awkward laugh, “indirectly 
perhaps—h’m—he—he—well, well, well; he sinned 
through excess of fidelity, turning a virtue into a vice. 
Leave it at that. Let the Law and Rackham’s con¬ 
science deal with Rackham, my dear.” 

“I think we should rather think of Jimmy, who has 
done so much to help,” said Dick, bluntly. 

Trant chuckled. “A great lad, Jimmy. I’m look¬ 
ing after him. Being an old bachelor without chick or 
child, I shall adopt Jimmy with his father’s permission, 
and do my best to help him to realize his ambition. 

“The Head of the C.I.D. will help also I think,” 
suggested Dick, smiling. 



3°4 


THE WHISPERING LANE 


“Rather. Jimmy’s performance has earned ap¬ 
proval in high quarters. Ouf!” the Inspector rose with 
a yawn, “I must ask you to put me up for the night, 
Mr. Hustings. I have travelled from London, and 
feel too tired to go on to Tarhaven. Give me a shake¬ 
down.” 

“Delighted,” said Dick, cordially. “Tell Brent to see 
to your supper and your room. I’ll be with you 
shortly.” 

Trant opening the door, laughed approvingly. He 
guessed that the lovers wished for a solitude of two. 
“Enjoy your golden hour, young people, and so make 
up for your many leaden days. My blessing on you 
both. Ha! Ha! Ha!” and he went out through the 
doorway, chuckling heartily. 

When alone with Aileen, the young man folded her 
in his arms, “Darling, try now to forget our troubles 
of the past. This is the end.” 

“No!” she whispered softly, “remember what 
Edith said when she was dying: 'This is the begin¬ 
ning of something more glorious, more wonderful,’ 
because—you and I are together for always.” 

“There is nothing more glorious than the thought 
that you will soon be my own dear wife.” 

“And nothing more wonderful than the way in which 
everything has been discovered, so that we can marry 
in peace.” 

“And all from the one word 'Whispering,’ ” mused 
Dick. “Curious how that word haunted me, until I 
laid its ghost. But I must close the door, or you will 
be getting cold. Oh, Aileen, look! The moon!” 

And indeed it was the moon, now breaking in white 
splendour, through the grey mists which were grad¬ 
ually dissolving into nothingness. The lovers stood at 


THE THIRD REVELATION 


305 


the door, clasped in one another’s arms, watching the 
gradual unveiling of the night-world. Slowly the 
wreaths of pale vapour faded away, slowly the high 
winds swept the sky clear of clouds, until the moon 
rode triumphantly in the luminous azure of a starry 
sky. “It is an omen,” said Dick, gladly, “so have our 
troubles faded away.” 

“Oh I hope so,” murmured the girl, clinging to him 
fondly. “Please God we shall now have peace and 
happiness.” 

“Amen to that,” said her lover, and kissed her twice, 
thrice, and again. 


THE END 













































































































































* 




































































Mt 













































































































































V 








.4 






t 








* 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



□□□EED3LS43 














































































































































































































































































